


Phases

by lolo313



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: After Camlann Merlin Big Bang, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 09:39:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2383589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolo313/pseuds/lolo313
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Terror stalks the forests of Camelot. A beast with eyes red as hell. Death falls like leaves in autumn. Arthur, along with Merlin and his knights, attempt to hunt down the creature. But when Arthur is attacked, it is more than just his body which is hurt. A darkness lurks in the Prince’s heart, powerful, and growing stronger with every passing day. Will Merlin be able to save him in time? Will they be able to find the beast and reverse the curse before it’s too late? On a cold mountaintop the two will confront more than a shadowy creature with yellowed fangs—they will face their own selves, honest and brutal, with only the moon to witness as their relationship is forever changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phases

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, what a fest! I'd just like to thank everyone who made this possible: the wonderful mods over at After Camlaan for running this, to my fantastically talented artist, attaasa/barbitone, for creating some beautiful pieces, and to my beta, Danielle, for making this intelligible. Any mistakes that remain are the result of my own stubbornness alone.
> 
> Thank you all.

**Prologue: New**

            The moon above cast pools of silver upon the forest below. Tall and thin as candlesticks the trees clung together, their branches entwined as they shivered in the wind. It whipped up the leaves scattered on the ground, threw them into the air to cast long, dancing shadows. The scratchy, hoarse whispers of woods at night filled the air, covering the ground like a blanket.

            Balon wrapped his coat closer against his chest, tugged at the mule’s reins, urged the beast onwards, faster, its hooves clopping over stones and roots, the hollow sounds spreading out through the forest like ripples on a still pond. With a whimpering bray, the mule shook its head, rattled the harness hitched on its flank, rocked the long poles of wood that ran along its dull-brown body. A swift _swish_ hissed through the air as Balon brought the crop down on the mule’s side; a pained whinny shot through the midnight air.

            The path was treacherous enough as it was without the beast upsetting the cart it dragged in its wake. They’d left the road hours ago, well past supper, long after the sun had sunk beneath the verdant horizon. Balon had watched the sky burn bright as autumn, bright as harvest, with all its fresh oranges and reds, watched it fade, as if someone were washing the sky off, rinsing all its color away. Most travelers stop at nightfall, find an inn or camp on the side of the road. It’s dangerous to journey after sunset, even on the best stretches of road—if your horse doesn’t break a leg tripping over itself in the darkness, there are bandits abound more than willing to separate a man from his purse and pulse. But Balon could not afford to wait.

            With a sharp tug, he stilled the mule, gave it a moment to rest. He went to the cart, peered through the darkness. Though the moon hung round and heavy as the ocean, full as a woman with child, the vast network of branches, arching and interlocking far above his head, sliced the milky light that trickled down, till only strips and slivers pooled around his feet. For the hundredth time that night he contemplated lighting his lantern, tucked inside a saddle bag, but thought better of it; light allowed you to see, but also to _be_ seen. His fingers danced over the wood bottom of the cart bed, felt for her wrap of blankets. He found her hand, patted it, traveled up her arm, moved her head from where it was furrowed in a mass of cloth to rest his palm against her forehead. Wet with sweat and burning with fever.

            “Papa…” Her voice, thin as November ice, crawled from out her nest of shawls and coats, wormed its way out the holes and worn patches. “Papa, I’m so cold.”

            When they’d left Farrow three days back Balon had emptied the house of all sheets and blankets, every scrap of clothing, even pulled the curtains, sewn by his late wife, from off the windows. Had bundled it all in the back of the cart and set Nessa down inside it. Yet still her sickness made her shiver, prevented her from eating, shook her like a freshly laundered shirt in the breeze.

            “Hush love, here, take Papa’s coat.” Shrugging out of his sleeves, Balon laid it over Nessa, watched her tremble despite the warm stolen from his own body, trapped within the leather. All along his arms fine, tiny hairs stood up against the chill, his flesh pimpled at the cold. But Nessa snuggled beneath her mass of wraps, hid her face beneath a fold of tunic. “There, that’s better now, isn’t it? Just a little while longer before we reach Camelot, rest for Papa now, won’t you love?” She didn’t, couldn’t, respond, already lost once more to fever. Balon took up the mule’s reins, yanked it back into motion, stepped in front to guide it through the dark of the forest.

            Like frost in April, Nessa’s illness had appeared from nowhere, had overtaken her in the night; one day she was playing in the fields, helping with the washing, and the next she was too weak to rise from bed, was hot to the touch and flushed a startling scarlet. What little Balon remembered of his mother’s remedies, the stews and herbs, proved little help. Nor could the good wives in Farrow, or their counterparts in the next three towns over, seem to do anything to stem the sickness’s gradual advancement. His daughter was dying before his eyes. Most had given up on her, offering condolences before she was even in the ground, but Balon had heard talk of a physician in Camelot, servant to the King himself, who was supposed to be able to work miracles, to bring people back from the brink of death itself. He knew he had to at least try.

            But every day since they’d left Farrow Nessa had worsened, grown weaker, not nearly strong enough for such a long journey, not in her condition. Time was against them, running from them like the wind that slips beneath your tunic to cool your blood and whisk itself away. Balon feared that Nessa too would slip from him in the night while he slept, so for the past two days he’d forced himself to push on past fatigue, past exhaustion, marching through the midnight hours till the first gray rays of day shone through the canopy above. If only he could get to this man, this Gaius, Nessa could be saved.

            Puffs of white billowed and died before Balon’s face, renewed with each shaky breath as he trudged along, rubbing his free hand along his arm, willing warmth back into his limbs. He peered up at the sky, tried to pierce the thick covering of branches above him, guessed there were still four or five more hours before dawn. The mule brayed, threw back its head, rattled the cart till the side wheels threatened to lift off the ground. Balon twisted round, crop raised above his head, when he heard the _crack_ of a snapping twig.

            Balon was no fool, was well aware of the type of men who lurked in woods at night. _Bandits, robbers, cutthroats_. On his hip he fingered his dagger’s hilt, gripped it tight, cocked his head, turned his ear up to the night. Another snap, the barest rustle of leaves displaced on the ground. Someone stalking closer. Balon drew the blade out of its sheath, heard the metal sing. A branch, just beyond his sight, nestled just within the bed of shadows on the edge of his vision, bent and broke.

            “Stay where you are!” He shouted into darkness, brandishing his dagger before him. The tiny blade caught the moonlight, glinted silver and white. “I warn you, I’m armed!” For a heartbeat there was silence, save for Balon’s own ragged breath steaming in front of his face. Then a low growl, rumbling deep in someone’s, _something’s_ , throat came from the shadows. Balon turned to the sound, coming from behind him, but— _too quick_ —lost his footing, fell to the ground. He landed wrong and hard, his elbow smashing into a stone. Pain shot up his arm, his fingers opened reflexively, his dagger clattered from his grasp. The mule whinnied with fright, fought its harness, lifted onto its back legs, the cart tipped, toppled, tore loose the reins as the mule half-galloped away.

            “Nessa!” Balon cried, crawling on hands and knees to the upturned cart. Out of it a mass of blankets had spilled, pulsing with muffled sobs. Balon gathered his daughter into his arms, clutched her against his chest. She shook and trembled in her swath of cloth. With wild eyes Balon scanned the forest, head swinging left to right, right to left, searching for the mule, the bandits, salvation.

            He saw them then. Saw the deep red orbs floating, no, not floating, suspended in the center of that black face, massive, connected to a neck thick as a man’s thigh, saw the muscled haunches, the sea of matted fur, black as pitch. Balon blinked, mad with fear, as the great hound pawed forward, teeth bared in a snarl. Edging backwards, Balon felt for the dagger on his hip, remembered he had dropped it, swore, cursed, prayed under his breath. The beast threw back its head.

            Its howl pierced the night. Its fangs pierced Balon’s throat.

 

**Chapter One: Waxing**

            Buried beneath his covers, legs tucked up against his chest, head furrowed deep in his pillow, Merlin felt warm, _cozy_ even, despite autumn’s morning chill. Crisp sunlight, pale yellow strips, fell through his room’s solitary window, a slanted rectangle glowing on the bare stone floor. Merlin twisted and turned in bed, watched the dust dance, resplendent as it fell. The chair propped in the corner began to glow, the dull brown turned luminous by the sun’s touch.

            Merlin knew from years of experience that this meant it was time to get up, that when the first splinters were lit the hour was still early enough that he could enjoy a leisurely breakfast with Gaius before rushing off to attend to his duties. But he shivered just thinking about stepping onto the icy floor, the thought of leaving his heated cocoon almost too painful to contemplate. Shrugging the blankets up over his head, Merlin resolved to rest his eyes for a few more seconds, just long enough to garner a bit of courage, before braving the cold world beyond the warmth and comfort of his bed.

            When at last he reawakened, head snapping round to check the sunlight, the distorted square had long since left the chair, now in relative shadow. An hour, perhaps more, had vanished before his eyes. Scrambling out of bed Merlin tripped, legs tangled in his bed sheets, falling flat on the floor. His flesh goose-pimpled as the warmth left him, sapped through the thin layers of his sleep clothes. He dressed in a rushed daze, haphazardly grabbing a tunic here, trousers there, throwing them onto his body. In his haste Merlin somehow managed to put both his pants and shirts on backwards, precious minutes wasted as he twisted round in his tunic, kicking off his britches before tugging them back right-way on.

            Gaius jumped as Merlin burst through his bedroom door, did not step but rather _flew_ down the handful of stairs, brushing past the table where the old man was seated, spooning porridge into his mouth.

            “Merlin, do you have any idea what time it is? I’d have thought you left hours ago!”

            “Overslept,” Merlin breathed, fisting his arms into his jacket, working his feet into boots.

            “But your breakfast—”

            “Late, can’t eat, have to hurry!” Merlin threw open the chamber door and quick as that disappeared, his footfalls already echoing distantly down the corridor before the door even had time to swing shut.

            If he walked, Merlin knew he could reach the kitchens—all the way on the ground floor, many flights of stairs and hallways from the physician quarters he shared with Gaius in one of the citadel’s towers—in ten minutes. If he trotted briskly, he could make it in five or six. If he broke out into an all-out-fast-enough-to-break-his-neck-if-he-fell run, he could make it in three.

            Merlin made it in two, sliding into the kitchen, colliding bodily with Marge, the head cook. A round, powdered woman, who, after years spent making dinner rolls, had succumbed to their strange culinary magic and finally been transformed into one (or so went the theory Merlin held). Despite the relatively early hour, her face was already flushed from the heat of cooking fires, arms doughy and paled with flour, a thin wisp of brown hair dangling across her sweat-prickled forehead. Her lips twisted in a snarl to reveal yellowed, crooked teeth, and had they not been surrounded by food meant for the royal family, Merlin suspected she would have spit.

            “And why don’t ye look where ye going?” Marge brandished a wooden spoon threateningly, narrowed her eyes in an accusatory squint.

            “Maybe if you weren’t the size of a horse so many people wouldn’t run into you…” Merlin muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes.

            “What’d ye say to me boy?”

            “Nothing! Arthur’s breakfast ready?” Merlin plastered his best smile, all teeth and cheek, across his face, holding his arms out, fingers flexing open and close. Marge scowled, gave him one last look over before loading his arms with the flat, heavy platter, silver and laden with food. Merlin quirked his head to the side, flashed Marge a grin, turned on his heel and scampered away, up the stairs to Arthur’s chambers.

            Balancing the platter with both hands, Merlin took the stairs in twos and threes, hopping round corners, bouncing off near-collisions with guards and maids, tilting side to side to readjust each off-quilter step. As usual, the cornucopia weighed heavy on Merlin’s arms, muscles straining to hold aloft the mountains of meats and cheeses, the many loaves of bread, the rainbow of red apples, violet grapes, green pears, orange mandarins. With each inhale a heady scent of smoked sausage, charred ham, roasted turkey, assaulted his nostrils, made his mouth water and his stomach rumble and groan with protracted hunger. Rounding a corner, Merlin darted a glance left and right, assuring, for but a moment, he was alone, before stuffing a roll of beef and cheese into his mouth. His knees wobbled and knocked at the taste, so rich, cheek distended, swallowing fast as he could, lest someone catch him in the act. Succulent spices, creamy fat, slid down his throat, Merlin coughed, choking a bit, before ducking down the hallway to Arthur’s bedroom. Using his hip, lifting onto his tiptoes, Merlin pushed down on the handle and budged the door open, stepped into the Prince’s chambers.

            Much was as he’d left it the night before when, nearing midnight, he’d finally finished the last of his chores, armor polished, boots shined, clothes laundered and lain out for the next day’s meetings and training, Arthur, fed and bathed, tucked in bed, head on feather pillows, satin sheets wrapped around his body. In fact, it was almost as if Arthur had not moved at all, still ensconced beneath a nest of blankets, warm and cozy, blissfully asleep while the whole of Camelot buzzed and worked around him.

            The clamorous _clang_ of the breakfast platter falling onto the table rang out, bouncing off the stone falls as Merlin dropped it, moving to tug the curtains open, flooding the room, which till now had seemed full of a soft, morning glow, with the harsh yellow of direct sunlight. Arthur, roused suddenly from sleep, shot up in bed, clutching the sheets against his chest like a startled maid. His eyes went blank and he blinked furiously as his vision must have surely blurred and blackened at the sudden illumination. Merlin chuckled softly to himself.

            “What’s the story morning glory? Sleep well?” Merlin grinned bright as daylight as he made his way about the room, feet slapping against the flagstones, curtains pulled back with the ring of metal, more and more sun bursting across the mahogany shine of Arthur’s desk, burning the velvet reds and gold of Arthur’s bed. “Hungry? I brought breakfast.” Merlin knocked over the chalice set upon the table, righted it with enough force to make the cup vibrate, tapped the water jug against the table to test whether it was full or not.

            “Merlin?” Arthur, who had since fallen back onto his mountainous pillows, drawled with the indolent lilt of slumber still clinging to his voice.

            “You have a council meeting with you father this morning, can’t be late for that,” Merlin continued as if the Prince hadn’t spoken, “and then there’s training with the knight—”

            “Merlin.”

            “And even though it’s still a few days away we need to prepare for the harvest festival—”

            “Merlin!” Arthur shouted, bolting upright in bed. Lazily Merlin turned from the wardrobe he’d been standing before, exchanging the tunic laid out the night before for a heavier one to better suited for the day’s chill.

            “Yes Sire?” The veins vining up the sides of Arthur’s neck stuck out like ridges on a map, a red flush seeping out across his cheeks. But Arthur smiled in that effected, basilic way royals do, flashing rows of pearl when he grinned and motioned Merlin forward with the flick of his fingers.

            “Could you come here for a moment?”

            “Of course, Sire.” Merlin dipped low at the waist, hand sweeping the floor in an exaggerated, obsequious bow. He stepped forward a few feet.

            “No, closer, Merlin.” Merlin shuffled closer. “Now, right here, just a bit closer.” Arthur patted the side of the bed nearest his manservant. When at last Merlin stood beside him, knees pressed against the mattress, Arthur smiled till his cheeks nearly dimpled.

            Arthur lunged forward, kicking the sheets from his body, as he fisted a handful of Merlin’s tunic, dragging him forward and down onto the bed. Merlin, unprepared, tipped forward effortlessly, balance thrown aside, as he tumbled onto the downy bedding. Then Arthur’s hands were on him, pinning his arms, winding round his head, as he kicked and struggled to right himself. But though he’d just woken up, Arthur still had years of martial training on Merlin, and the element of surprise to boot. Try as he might, Merlin couldn’t wriggle from the Prince’s grasp, and soon found himself, back pressed against Arthur’s chest, arms locked behind him, head nestled in the crook of Arthur’s elbow, effectively and decidedly trapped.

            “Now that I’ve got your attention, _Mer_ lin, please do tell me _why_ you insist on making so much noise so very early in the morning?” When the only response Arthur received was a chocked gurgling, he loosened his hold, just slightly, on Merlin’s throat.

            “S’not…that…early,” Merlin gasped out between mouthfuls of air. “You’re…just…lazy.” Merlin twisted his neck around to grin up at Arthur, who scowled and jabbed his fingers into Merlin’s ribs, digging up beneath his armpits, as Merlin squirmed and squealed in his grasp. But displaced at Arthur’s attention was, Merlin was able to worm himself free, only to return the Prince’s attack, snapping up one of Arthur’s ankles to dance his fingers across the surprisingly soft sole of his foot. Ducking kicks and dodging blows the two rolled across the bed, laughing like children, till a resounding knock boomed on the other side of the chamber door.

            Breathless, Arthur and Merlin stared at each other, glancing darts to the door. Suddenly the mirth slid from Arthur’s face, his young face, the face of a man barely grown, and the mask of sovereignty, the mask of the Prince, fell upon it. He shoved, not hard, but shoved nonetheless, Merlin from bed, ordering him to see who it was. Brushing his hair back into place, retucking his tunic, Merlin slinked over to the door, pried it open to find a guard standing at attention.

            “Your Highness,” the man said, gliding past Merlin as if he weren’t even there, “your father has requested your presence in the council chamber.”

            Arthur had since risen from bed and made to sit at his table, a hunk of bread already lifted in his hand.

            “The council meeting isn’t for another hour at least,” Arthur said before stuffing the food into his mouth.

            “Begging your pardon, Sire, this isn’t concerning the council meeting. There’s been an attack.”

 

 

            The knights formed a semi-circle before Uther, seated in his throne, bent forward, hands steepled beneath his chin. Arthur stood beside him, laces half untied, tunic ill-fitting, looking for all intents and purposes a hastily dressed fool. Golden flakes of sleep still clung to the corners of his eyes. Merlin hung to the periphery of guards, back against a pillar, as Sir Leon, alone before the King, gave his report.

            “We found them while riding out on the morning patrol. Two bodies in the woods just east of the citadel. Dead.”

            A murmur shimmered through the assembled knights, words muttered under breath, passed from ear to ear. Uther silenced them with a glance, with a wave of his hand.

            “Bandits?” The King asked.

            “No, your Grace, we believe they were set upon by a beast of some sort.”

            “An animal?” Uther cocked an eyebrow, gaze uncomprehending. “Are you certain?”

            “I fear it is so. Of course, we can’t be sure till Gaius examine the bodies, but if what we suspect is true, the creature is in all likelihood still out there, posing a danger to Camelot.”

            Arthur, rigid beside his father, bristled, straightened his spine, reset his feet in an open stance. Merlin lifted onto the tips of his toes to peer over the sea of red cloaks, the curls of auburn, flaxen, raven hair of the knights. But Arthur wouldn’t turn his gaze from Leon.

            When the message-bearer had departed, Arthur had dressed in haste, speaking only to command Merlin to hand him a shirt, to grab his boots, fetch a coat. He would not look at him, glaring down at the floor or else staring at some point beyond his head, focused on some far-off spot on the wall. When Merlin went to drape a cloak about Arthur’s shoulders the Prince sidestepped his fingers, took the swath of red without comment, fastening it about his neck himself.

            None of this was terribly new to Merlin, long since familiar with Arthur’s sudden moods, like winds across the fields, heralding a coming storm. Always, whenever they became too familiar, when their banter became too fresh, too close to home, Arthur’s smile would drop from his face, voice gone cold and curt, ordering Merlin off to some task. Servant and Prince, of course they couldn’t be friends, Merlin knew this, told himself not to be hurt, yet still, at least when they were alone, couldn’t Arthur let them pretend for a little longer?

            How easily we forget our station in life. How quickly the world hurries to remind us.

            Uther rose, drew the room to him, as if all the light shone from his dark countenance, as if the air existed to give him alone breath. Merlin would never call the King old, certainly never in his presence, but one could forget that when he had a bare handful of summers more than Arthur when he’d conquered Camelot, that he’d won his throne through blood and fire. Except in these moments, when it was impossible not to remember.

            “I will suffer no creature to live in my lands that sheds the blood of my own people. Arthur,” Uther turned to his son, clapped a hand on his shoulder, and Merlin could almost see his knees buckle beneath the weight of his responsibility, “you shall take a contingent of knights and root out this foul beast. We shall drape its pelt over my throne.” Uther laughed, and after a pause the knights joined in. Arthur’s face remained hard and unmoved as stone.

            Men dispersed, scattered left and right, off to grab arms, to secure horses, garnish provisions. All around him Merlin drowned in rattling chainmail, in scarlet cloaks swishing past, in leather smacking against stone. And then the hall was empty, save for Arthur, still as a statue, watching him men ready for the hunt. When at last the doors fell shut Merlin pushed off from the pillar, stepped towards Arthur, but already he was brushing past him too, hands clasped behind his back.

            “Ready my horse, Merlin, and make sure Gaius knows he’ll be needed.”

            What could Merlin say, except—

            “As you wish, Sire.”

 

 

            Merlin had to hold his kerchief over his nose to stop from gagging. Still the smell clawed its way up his nostrils, its siren song calling bile forth to rise in his throat, pungent, acrid, sour. Worse than the stench was its familiarity—how often had Merlin stumbled across it back in Ealdor, or even in Camelot, meat left out too long, exposed to sun and heat, till it burst with pale, yellow waves of maggots, its rancid odor filling whatever room it was found in? Death was no foreign terror, only a domestic fact just a few misplaced hours this side of the kitchen. Had Gaius, already dismounted, bent over one of the corpse, not called him forward, Merlin would never have approached the fog of miasma surrounding the unfortunate souls strewn in crimson on the forest floor. But Gaius was insistent, demanding this or that vial, snapping his fingers for a looking glass.

            “Look at these bite marks, Merlin, what do you see?” Gaius twisted round to inquire up at his assistant. But all Merlin could see was himself becoming ill, of the knights mocking derision as he vomited beside a tree. He shook his head, balled his scarf more effectively into his palm to press it over his mouth. Gaius, seemingly unaware of Merlin’s distress, turned back, leaned close to the body, a man’s, and the vicious gashes torn all along the length of his torso. Strips of flesh hung loose, flapped in the breeze, caked in brown, flakes lifting on the wind. “They’re enormous. For a bite this size…” Gaius trailed off into silence.

            Arthur, who till now had been stalked the scene with his knights, scouring the ground for tracks, straightened and came to kneel beside the aged physician.

            “It’d have to be huge.”

            “Monstrous!” Gaius corrected, eyebrows disappearing nearly into the start of his faded hairline. “I’ve never seen a beast that could do something like…this.” Gaius swept his arm out, encompassing the horror all around them.

            Nestled within a copse of trees, ground splashed red in wild, painter’s streaks, pieces of them scattered about. Here, two, three fingers, off-white nub of knuckles stark against the pale-blue flesh, drained of blood. There, wrapped round a tree, as if, in death, he’d clung to it, an arm, at least, the chewed remains of what once was. Viscous purples, burgundies, long strings of entrails, coiled like wet rope about the bodies.

            At first they only found the man, slumped against the upturned cart, back against the splintered wheel. From where chunks had been ripped from his thigh Merlin could spy bone; shuddering, he turned away, lent against a tree, sipped breath in through his mouth to steady his stomach. He could not bring himself to look at the man’s face—not least of all because he had none, torn from his skull. A gaping hole in his throat whistled as wind blew through it, till it almost sounded like the man was wailing, lamenting his own misfortune.

            When Gaius had asked about the second body Leon had reported, the knight simply nodded to the cart, to the dark shadows of its belly. Gaius crouched, poked his head underneath. Merlin had never heard the old man swear before, but he did now, following his blasphemy with a hurried prayer.

            “She couldn’t have been older than seven or eight.”

            A murmur ran through the men, oaths muttered and given, vowing blood for blood. Except for Arthur, who’d barely spoken a word, just stared till the world seemed to drown in his eyes. At last he turned to his knights, hand gripping the hilt of his sword, knuckles white.

            “Leon, take Gaius back to the citadel. The rest of you, ready your horses. We shall ride this beast down before it can take another life.”

            As the men tightened saddles, as Gaius collected his vials, steadied himself as he stepped into his saddle, Arthur looked at Merlin, caught his eye and held it for one, two heartbeats. _What_ , Merlin wanted to ask, _what do you want?_ Was the Prince sending him away, ordering him to accompany Gaius back? Or was he asking, hoping, Merlin would follow him, danger be damned? He said nothing, not when Gaius rode off, praying Merlin to take care, nor when Merlin kicked his horse in line behind the knights as they rode off, hot on the beast’s trail, but Merlin could not help but notice, right at the corners of Arthur’s mouth, that, while he certainly wasn’t smiling, perhaps he was frowning just a little bit less.

 

 

            All around him metal screamed and rattled as swords danced with swords, as blades kissed and slid apart, as chainmail held, deflected, or worse, buckled and was pierced. Merlin huddled against a tree, eyes darting, flicking back and forth— _there, a knight too occupied with one bandit to notice the one behind him, there, a knight on his back, vicious axe raised above his head_ —flashes of gold at each turn as a tree root suddenly wrapped itself around an unsuspecting foot, or else a sword inexplicitly flew from murderous hands. But there were still so many of them. So, so many.

            They’d been riding for little more than an hour when the trail went cold. Rolling water, thick and frothy, of a heavy stream had cut their path in two, and the tracks stopped dead at the banks. Arthur had dismounted and knelt by the water’s edge, fingers the soft pad of depressed mud, before flicking his wrist, rising with an oath.

            “What are we to do, Sire?” Sir Davis asked, tugging his horse round to face the Prince.

            But Arthur never had the chance to answer; somewhere in the bush a branch snapped, leaves rustled as something pushed through them. Arthur spun on his heel, drew his sword, twisted his neck, eyes wide, searching.

            Then they broke through the tree line, rivulets of bodies, brown with leathers and furs and dirt. Like ants, so many writhing limbs as they fell upon them like a storm cloud, pelting them with blows heavy as the hardest spring downpour. Pushing Merlin aside, Arthur surged forward, rallying his men to battle.

            Merlin huddled against the relative safety of his tree, prayed for obscurity as he tried desperately to tip the battle in the knight’s favor. Once more his eyes flicked to Arthur, hot in the thick of it, a mess of sweat and glinting silver, of flushed skin, the red of blood ( _not his own_ , Merlin prayed). But there were too many; for every man Arthur cut down two more seemed to sprout from the ground. Just now three of them were converging on the Prince, penning him in, backing him up to the river. Merlin called forth some coil of magic, but a blur to his right called his attention away. As he ducked the bandit’s blade soared above his hair—Merlin felt the rush of air ruffle his hair. Splinters of wood flew at his face as the blade sunk into the trunk.

            The man, so close Merlin could smell the unwashed filth clinging to him, grinned, yellow and foul and semi-toothless, as he yanked his sword free, fixing a hungry gaze on the white of Merlin’s throat. Before a spell could be summoned from the depths of his mind the man was swinging, Merlin recoiling, instincts too fast to notice the rock behind him, till he was sprawled, bruised and prostrate, on the ground. Lifting the straight line of steel above his head, the bandit licked his lips like a famished gourmand.

            And then his whole body went rigid, face melting, going soft and slack as life drained from it. His fingers weakened their grasp till his sword slipped free and clattered to the ground. As his body followed, Arthur, concern knitted tight across his brow in deep creases, peered down from behind him. Gauntlet clinking, Arthur jutted out a leather clad hand, pulling Merlin to his feet, fingers lingering on his forearm, pulse dancing beneath the touch. Merlin opened his mouth to let out the breath he’d been holding prisoner in his beating chest, to say thank you, to brush off his near-death with some jest, but as a one-eyed scoundrel ran up behind them all Merlin had time to say was,

            “Arthur!” Merlin shouted, pointing. Arthur spun, sword rising up to meet the man’s gut, gliding across it easy as silk through fingers. Red rolled down his lap, dripped down his legs as he stumbled forward, arms shaking as he attempted a weak parry. Merlin grabbed his shoulder, turned and thrust him at the tree, heard the hollow knock of his skull against the trunk resound across the glade, before he slumped to the forest floor.

            All around them knights fought with valiance and honor, years of training making their motions smooth as clear water, each step ringing with the practiced grace of a dancer. But more and more bandits streamed through the trees, crude, notched weapons raised with their voices in the air. Merlin saw the exact moment, saw Arthur’s brow furrow, saw his eyes squint in the sunlight, saw his lips twitch and frown. The exact moment he realized they were desperately, painfully, inescapably outnumbered.

            “Scatter!” His voice, sharp and thin, fought to rise above the din of battle, “scatter, all of you! Make for Camelot!” At the heavy stone of their commander’s voice the knights, in twos and threes, rippled out in all directions. Arthur grabbed Merlin by the scruff of his neck and pushed him forward, pushed him into running, fast on his heels.

            Cool drops hit his face, his boots and the bottoms of his pants soaked as they splashed through the stream, feet slipping and gliding over the riverbed till dry land was once more beneath them and they beat out a path, streaking blindly ahead, as shouts and clanging swords rand out behind. Everything was a blur, the verdant _swish_ of leaves whipping at his face, gnarled, bony claws of tree branches clinging to his jacket. Branches and stones littered the ground, nestled in the soft browns and greens of the earth, waiting to snatch at his foot. But every time he stumbled, every time he faltered and the ground tipped threateningly forward, there was Arthur, hand on his shoulder, on his hip, steadying him, urging him ever onward.

            How long had they been running? Merlin couldn’t say, only knew that needles laddered up his sides, stitched about his ribs so each gasping breath tugged at them, sewing his chest tighter. Fire roared and rumbled in his lungs, he was certain this breath would be his last, _this one, this one_ , till his head swam and he grew frighteningly dizzy. When at last he was certain he could not run another step, Merlin felt himself tugged sideways, suddenly all around him was stone and darkness, and Arthur was pressed against him.

            Their flight had led them through a valley, sheer rock faces leering down on either side of them, the hollow of the path echoing the bandits’ cries, still desperate in pursuit. Arthur knew they could not outrun them, knew Merlin could not keep up this pace for much longer, knew he had to think of _something_. Then he had spied hope, the fissure beneath an overhang of rock, hidden in shadows, barely, just barely large enough if they held their breath. Ducking inside he pulled Merlin in after, held him against the wall, nestled him in darkness, cupped a hand over his mouth to silence him as he listened for the bandits’ footfalls rushing towards them, then past, onwards and away, till they faded out of earshot.

            The crack in the wall was little more than a wink in the cliff face, tight and jagged so edges stabbed into the small of Merlin’s back, nipped at the back of his knees. Arthur was close, body flush against his own, chests so near Merlin couldn’t be sure if the heartbeat he felt was his own. At first he panicked, breath rolling out hot and rapid against Arthur’s fingers, the taste of leather hinting on his lips, but Arthur paid him no mind, kept his gaze fixed at the lip of the fissure, watching, watching, silent and breathless as a statue. Merlin didn’t know how long they stayed like this, a minute, an hour, an eternity, knew only that when at last Arthur relaxed and slipped outside it was far too soon.

            Above them the sky had darkened with clouds, gray and foreboding, and with heavy resignation Arthur turned to Merlin, kicking at the ground in frustration.

            “We can’t make it back to Camelot today. A storm will be upon us soon and these woods are probably swarming with bandits. We’ll have to make camp here for the night.”

 

 

            There was little to do in the way of setting up camp, no bereft bedrolls to air out and unfurl, no blankets to arrange, no rabbit to skin and skewer. Arthur had offered to track down some morsel to eat, scoffing at Merlin’s incredulity— _really, Merlin, a true huntsman needs no snares or crossbow to catch his dinner_ —leaving his servant to prepare a “roaring fire,” no easy task without flint and steel, tucked away in a saddle bag, abandoned with the horses when they fled. Even with all the tinder and kindling in the world there was little one could do without some initial spark, and no one seemed more unaware of this fact than Arthur, which, considering the manner in which Merlin eventually got a blaze burning, Merlin should be grateful for, since it avoided uncomfortable questions.

            If only he could magic up some food, since Arthur, for all his pomp and circumstance, returned empty handed, a deep scowl etched across his brow, the familiar _not-a-word-if-you-know-what’s-good-for-you_ plain as day on his face. They sat in silence around the tiny fire, tossing the odd twig or leave into the flames, watching as incandescent tongues lapped at the rapidly consumed wood, hungry for more.

            Speaking of hungry, Merlin’s stomach rumbled incessantly, echoing in the vast emptiness of the valley.

            “Can’t you keep that thing quiet?” Arthur grumbled, chin tucked into his chest, face lost in flames.

            “It’s not the one who failed to catch dinner.” Arthur shot Merlin a dangerous glare, but hunger blurred his mind, dulled him to common sense. “Not even a tiny rabbit? Did you even look for any berries?”

            “Merlin…”

            “Or some roots? I know you’re a Prince and all, but would it have killed you to get your hands a little dirty?”

            “So you expect me to root around in the dirt like a peasant?”

            “Well if it’s a choice between that and starving…” Merlin gestured vaguely with his hand, trailing off as his stomach protested loudly at the thought of roasted potatoes.

            “One night without food is not starving.”

            “Oh like you would know.”

            “Excuse me?”

            “When have you ever gone without three square meals?”

            “Plenty of times! I’m not some maiden that faints if lunch is five minutes late,” Arthur sneered, pointedly staring at Merlin, baiting him.

            “You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to your belt. Just last week I had to fix a new hole in it.”

            “That’s only because _you_ soaked it in the wash and the leather shrunk.”

            “Whatever you say, _Sire_.”

            A stony silence fell around them, broken only by the crackle of flames leaping into the aiir, sending sparks flying up into the rapidly darkening sky. As night fell so too did the rain. With a thunderous _crack_ the skies split open and the heavens poured down upon them, beating the ground with fists of water. Arthur and Merlin huddled closer against the cliff face, tightening their bodies into as little space as possible, desperate to remain under the overhang’s cover. The air grew cold and wet, and despite how many branches they fed into the fire it continued to sputter and falter, dampened by the downpour. Merlin had gathered what he’d hoped was a considerable supply of firewood, but as the pile dwindled and the rain showed no signs of stopping a freezing night was added to his list of possible discomforts to endure— _as if starving to death wasn’t enough._

            Sleep began to pluck at their eyelids, tugging them down as the rain faded into a melodious repetition in the backs of their minds. Merlin felt his chin dipping down, felt his head nodding, heavy on his neck, when at last Arthur stood and stretched, lying down on the only dry patch of dirt large enough to accommodate a human body.

            “What are you doing?” Merlin asked, eyeing Arthur as the Prince wiggled, getting comfortable as one could on hard, cold earth.

            “What does it look like, I’m going to bed. Honestly, Merlin, at times I worry about you.”

            “Clearly you’re going to bed, but where am I supposed to sleep?”

            Arthur propped himself up on an elbow, glanced around himself, as if he hadn’t noticed the confines of their particular situation till just now.

            “Oh, well, you can sleep like that, can’t you?” Arthur waved at Merlin’s hunched figure, curled up against the rock wall. Merlin hadn’t moved in ages, too cold and stiff, and the curve of his spine had begun to ache, warm tensions radiating out across his lower back, up into his shoulders and neck.

            “Oh, of course, don’t mind me, I’ll be just fine,” Merlin feigned nonchalant compliance, rolling his eyes, waving off Arthur’s supposed concerns.

            “Splendid, goodnight then.” Arthur, oblivious, rolled over with a smirk, nestled his head in the crook of his arm, and promptly well asleep.

            Though he tried, _truly_ tried, to stay angry, to glare at Arthur all through the night, wishing him nightmares and bad breath and cricks in his neck when he awoke, Merlin’s rage eventually simmered and died away, and as the rain tempered his seething mind he felt sleep creep up upon him to gently lay its hands upon his shoulders and push him beneath the dark wave of unconsciousness.

 

 

            Hours later a pearl of thunder woke Merlin with a start. _How long have I slept_ , Merlin wondered, mind cottoned with frantic, dancing dreams. There again, a low rumble piercing the drumbeat rhythm of the rain…but no, the sound was too low, to close to the ground to be thunder. Then he heard it, deep and thick, rolling about somewhere in the back of the animal’s throat, there, on the other side of their camp, just beyond the edge of his vision. But the night was dark and their fire had all but died away, leaving nothing but the soft glow of embers burning with their last.

            “Arthur,” Merlin whispered, voice hoarse with sleep.

            “ _Shh_.”

            A hand, suddenly, on his calf, stilling him. He peered through the corner of his eye, saw Arthur, alert, sitting upright, fingers wrapped around the hilt of his blade in nervous preparation. His eyes scanned the panoply of nothingness spread before like a flag, atramentous, fluttering in the wind.

            Stillness, save the rain. Nothing breathed, nothing stirred. Perhaps, Merlin hoped, they’d misheard, in sleep perhaps the rolling thunderclaps had invaded their minds, poisoned them to think—

            But there it was again, closer now, a hungry growl, long and desperate. And then there were the eyes, like two rubies thrust in the brightest blaze every built to combat the winter’s chill. Within them danced the flames that would consume the world and all the goodness in it. To see them was to stare into the very pits of hell—to be seen by them, to feel them moving over your body, was to _burn_.

            Its fur, sodden and dripping, clung to its body— _massive, large as a small horse_ —as it stalked forward, deft steps on paws big enough to crush a man’s throat. In a devilish grin the beast barred its teeth, long, yellow daggers, rows of them, ready to sink into pink flesh, its tongue lolled out of its mouth, hungry to lap at their warm, soon-to-be-spilt blood.

            Despite himself, Merlin trembled, afraid he might piss his britches. Desperately he searched his mind for some word, some phrase, to cast this beast back from whence it came, but his mind shook with the same feverish tremors as his body, and each time he grasped for some tendril of power it slipped away just as quickly.

_So this is how I will die_ , _powerless and afraid_.

            Merlin did not notice Arthur rising till the Prince was already on his feet, knuckles white round the hilt of his sword. With unconscious movement Merlin tried to stand, but Arthur’s hand on his chest pushed him down, effortless as brushing aside a branch.

            “Whatever happens, stay behind me.”

            And then Arthur was surging forward. He kicked at the dying fire, sending a flurry of burning embers raining down onto the beast’s face. Its howl rattled Merlin’s soul. When it lunged Arthur was ready, slicing at its flank as he sidestepped. With a wet snarl it burst forward again, but once more Arthur parried. Except he’d forgotten the rain, had not accounted for the slickness of the ground, the mud clinging to his boots. He’d banked on more traction, had overstepped his limits, was slipping to the ground. And then the beast was upon him.

            Arthur had the good sense and reflexes to shield his face with his arm, so instead of his throat the creature ripped into his forearm, biting through chainmail to tear at the flesh underneath. Arthur screamed as blood boiled forth, dripping down on his face as he beat at the beast with the hilt of his sword. At last his pommel found its eye, with a pained howl it stepped from Arthur’s chest, giving the Prince the chance to roll to his side, to push himself upright, but before he could it was on him again, teeth sunk into his side. Arthur made to yell, to shout, but his mouth hung open in abject silence as metal crunched against organs. With a toss of its head the beast began to shake Arthur, the Prince flailed helpless in its grasp. His head, tossed about like a leaf in the breeze, smacked against the ground with a sickening _thud_.

            Everything happened so fast Merlin could barely follow it. He’d scrambled about himself, searching for a log, a sharp rock, _anything_ to use, to fight off the beast, to protect Arthur. How could it move so fast? How had it gotten Arthur off his feet so quickly? And now he hung lifeless from the beast’s jaws, ashen and bleeding.

            All his previous hesitation vanished like smoke before a gale. He reached out, as if to stroke the creature’s head, fingers twitching with the charge pulsing through them. From deep within he called it forth, summoned the words to his lips as fire danced across his tongue.

            _“Fye growen!_ ”

            Like scattered stars the embers, damp and buried in the beast’s matted fur, burst to life in great fireballs in patchwork across the creature’s body. The night filled with its screeching howl and the acrid smell of scorched flesh. Arthur dropped limply from its mouth as the beast fled into the night, trailing smoke and yelps in its wake.

            Merlin was on Arthur in seconds, dragging his body back beneath the overhang. His hands came back red as he struggled to work the chainmail off of Arthur. His undershirt was soaked in blood, stained an ugly burgundy, sticky and clinging to his skin. The wound was worse than Merlin had feared—between his left ribs and hip the beast had torn open Arthur’s stomach, turning his flank into so much raw meat and viscera. Even now blood pooled against Merlin’s thigh where Arthur lay across it. Arthur’s face, pale and ashen, blurred as tears brimmed in Merlin’s eyes, streaming down his cheeks. With trembling fingers he cupped his bloodied side.

            “ _Hilen_.”

            All warmth swam from Merlin’s chest, slinking down his arm and out his fingers. Slowly, the torn fibers of Arthur’s skin began to knit together, entrails sucked back into place, as the bleeding slowed and then eventually stopped. More than anything Merlin wanted to pour more of himself into Arthur, wanted to stitch him back together, even to heal the scars he’d won long before he’d even met him, but he knew this was foolish. Already he could feel himself weakening, feel the tremor creeping up his legs, the numb spreading across his body. And besides, Arthur would be suspicious if he awoke without a scratch. So Merlin forced himself to be wary, to bloody a few feathers, to leave the flesh tender and marked. From around his neck he ripped off his kerchief, soaking it in the rain before bandaging Arthur’s arm. He leaned back against the cliff face and nestled Arthur across his lap. He cupped his face, brushed the strands of wet hair from his forehead, ran his thumb over his cheek, willing warmth back into his body. Then his eyelids grew heavy and he fell into an exhausted sleep.

            In his dreams Arthur called to him from far away, little more than a blur in the distant fog. But no matter how fast he ran, no matter how long he pursued him, Merlin could never seem to reach him. If was as if something were chasing Arthur, something faster than Merlin, something he couldn’t beat. He tried to shout, to warn him, but his mouth refused to utter more than a choked whine. And as his feet beat against the ground all Merlin could hear was Arthur growing fainter and fainter—

            _Merlin…Merlin…Merlin…_

“Merlin.”

            Merlin’s eyes fluttered open, peered down at Arthur grinning up at him. _Alive_.

            “Arthur…”

            “Well good morning to you too.”

            Merlin blushed, helped lift Arthur to a sitting position, crossed his legs and tugged his tunic down over his offending lap. Arthur winced as he struggled to stand, unbandaged hand grasping at his side. Merlin scrambled to his feet to help Arthur rise. He leaned heavy against Merlin’s shoulder, pale and sweaty, and Merlin wrapped an arm around his chest to keep him steady.

            “The beast—”

            “Is gone, for now. But we need to get you to Gaius as soon as possible.”

            Arthur looked for a moment as if he were going to protest, some unspoken word tugging at the side of his eyes, making him squint and blink as he stared back at Merlin. Then he nodded, and with Merlin’s arms around him they made their way back to Camelot.

 

 

            “Judging from the other two bodies, I’d say you’re lucky to be alive.” Gaius washed his hands in the wooden basin, talking over his shoulder to Arthur, who sat on a stool, the white of his bandages stark against bare chest. “As it were I’d say you’re extremely fortunate to walk away with only the injuries you have.” Gaius flicked his wrists, wiping his hands on a rag. From where he stood grinding herbs Merlin felt Gaius stare at him, could see the raised eyebrow in his mind clear as day. “The good news is you haven’t sustained any permanent damage.”

            “At least it didn’t get my sword hand,” Arthur muttered, flexing his arm and wincing at the pain.

            “Still, no training, at least for a few days.” Gaius held up a hand when Arthur made as if to protest. “You need rest while your body heals. Merlin is preparing a tonic for you—you’re to take it twice daily. I’ll send him with some vials once it’s prepared.” Gaius laid a withered hand on the Prince’s shoulder. “You escaped with your life, and Merlin’s too. Be grateful.” Arthur offered a wan smile as he rose to his feet, gingerly raising his arm as Merlin stepped forward to work his tunic back down over his head. “Rest now, Sire. I’ll send Merlin in a while with your medicine.” Arthur nodded and left, favoring his left leg as he limped from the room.

            Merlin watched him go, ached to follow him, to carry him, to lay him in bed, to ease the hurt within. The walk back to Camelot had been slow and arduous, taking the better part of a day, filled with struggling grunts and endless questions as to just exactly _how_ Merlin had fended off the beast. Arthur, able to do little more than crawl, had been held up by Merlin’s tireless arms. More than once they’d had to duck behind a copse of trees or crouch against a boulder to avoid detection by roaming bandits. Never once did Arthur complain, save for a rare wince or groan. His strength was exhausting; Merlin felt so tired, so weak and shattered after last night’s attack. He wanted desperately, without even realizing it himself, for Arthur to break down, to beg Merlin to hold him, to bemoan his side, to be, for just a moment, _human_. That way at least Merlin would not feel so frail in comparison. And now that Arthur was finally out of his sight, when at last Merlin could shatter and sob and shake in privacy, he wanted nothing more than to run back to him, to shelter him from any harm that might find him in this weakened state. _Where had such loyalty come from_?

            “I should go prepare Arthur for bed,” Merlin began, making for the door, but Gaius called him back to the task at hand.

            “Arthur will manage just fine on his own for a few moments, and besides, his medicine is only half done.”

            With disdain Merlin picked back up the pestle, ground the verdant pulp in the mortar with all the anxious energy twittering in his fingers. As the stones clacked together Merlin seethed and huffed, each lump of green the creature’s face, and every time he brought the pestle down he slashed at it, again and again and again and—

            “Merlin…”

            Gaius’ hand on Merlin’s arm was warm and soft. _When had he started shaking_? Merlin let the pestle drop from his fingers, collapsed onto a stool and dropped his face into his palms.

            “Gaius,” Merlin whispered into his hands, “Gaius, I thought…I thought he was…” But he could not bring himself to say it, could not even think it, lest he make it true.

            “But he’s not, Merlin. Arthur is alive and well. Thanks to _you_.”

            Merlin lifted his face, saw Gaius smiling at him, tender as fresh dough. Merlin tried to smile back as his eyes wet and the world blurred.

            “The creature, the beast…”

            “Is a problem for the knights to deal with and probably long gone by now besides. You’ve been through a lot these past days. You should rest.”

            “But Arthur’s medicine—” Merlin gestured vaguely towards the table and the vials upon it.

            “Can be delivered by a doddering old man, at least for one night. Now off to bed with you.”

            Merlin let himself be shuffled off to bed, saw the world go dark as Gaius extinguished his candle, heard the chamber door open and shut as Gaius went off to see to the Prince’s needs. His head felt heavy against his pillow and soon Merlin felt himself sinking into his mattress, mind fading with the oncoming waves of sleep. Just as his eyes began to slip shut, his room was dashed with white, spilling across the floor from his high window. A wind had blown the clouds from the moon’s face. The citadel burned with a faint glow.

            All night Merlin’s dreams were filled with pale fire.

 

**Chapter Two: Full**

 

            Merlin was unmistakably late. _Again_. Gaius had offered little in the way of excuses beyond _rest_ and _convalescing_ and _recovery_. Which was all well and good from a physician’s perspective, but try explaining that to Arthur on an empty stomach.

            Speaking of stomachs, Merlin’s growled in protest at another skipped breakfast, forgone for the sake of haste. But as Merlin sped through the citadels corridors the smell of Arthur’s breakfast, of ham and sliced cheese, filled his nose, calling drool to his mouth, causing a roaring rumble in his belly. _What’s a little nibble_ , Merlin reasoned, stuffing a roll of meat past his lips, barely chewing, simply savoring the taste as it filled his mouth, before swallowing the morsel practically whole. Its smoky flavor still danced across his tongue as Merlin stepped into Arthur’s room.

            The Prince sat in bed, propped up by pillows, and he signed in exasperation as Merlin crossed the room towards him.

            “Finally! Is it too much to ask for breakfast to be on time once in a while?”

            “Sorry, Sire, won’t happen again,” Merlin apologized as he set the tray across Arthur’s lap before moving to the wardrobe to prepare Arthur’s clothes for the day.

            Arthur rubbed his hands together in eager anticipation, licking his lips at the feast before him. With a great inhale Arthur took in the succulent scent of his meal. As Merlin tugged open the wardrobe doors he heard Arthur inhale again, deeper, sniffing at the air. Then the bed groaned as he stood up, padding over to Merlin, who turned at the Prince’s approach. There was a keen look in Arthur’s eyes as he narrowed in on his servant, stalking forward, closer and closer, till Merlin was pressed against the wood of the wardrobe. Arthur, inches from his face, flared his nostrils as he sniffed incessantly. Then he narrowed his gaze, a predator’s glint in his eyes.

            “You ate some of my breakfast.”

            “W-what?” Merlin sputtered incredulously, eyes wide, before snapping his mouth shut, afraid he’d be betrayed by his own breath.

            “Merlin…” Arthur warned, but Merlin simply shook his head, tight-lipped. Arthur leveled an accusatory finger at Merlin’s face. “ _Mer_ lin.”

            “I didn’t have time for breakfast!” Merlin whined. “And I was already late and I figured you wouldn’t notice one piece of ham.” Arthur glared through slits. “Besides, you can afford to lighten up on your meals a little, what with you missing training for a few days…”

            “What are you saying?” Arthur asked, warning plain in his voice, though Merlin chose to ignore it.

            “Just that, if you won’t be training, you might want to watch your diet. Or else…” Merlin poked at Arthur’s belly. Affronted, Arthur slapped Merlin’s hand away, stalking back to his bed.

            “If you’re so concerned about me missing training, why don’t you go sharpen all the swords in the armory before this afternoon’s session?” Arthur said, throwing back the blankets on his bed with a huff before laying himself back in bed and digging into his meal. Merlin groaned and shut the wardrobe with a snap, regretting his impudence. “And Merlin?” Merlin, who had neared the door, turned in time to catch the apple Arthur had chucked at his head. “Get rid of this for me.”

            “But you love apples.”

            “Yes, well, I’m not hungry for one this morning so I want you to take it…and get rid of it.” Arthur spoke more to his food than to Merlin, and though they were at opposite sides of the room Merlin thought he saw color bleeding into Arthur’s cheeks. He grinned and nodded, lifting the apple in gratitude.

            “As you wish, Sire.”

            In the hallway, Merlin bit through the ruby skin, juice dribbling down his chin. It was crisp and sweet as a kiss.

 

 

            The armory lay silent as a tomb, each blade, each wave of metal a testament to the lives they had taken and those they had saved. In imitation of the men who carried them the swords stood at attention, lined along the far wall in wooden racks, deadly edges dull in the dim light. Merlin fiddled with the whetstone, made it danced around his fingers as he hefted the first hilt, sat on the ground and lay it across his lap. How he marveled at the weight of it— _how can one hold death so effortlessly?_

            Soon the room filled with the low, grating song of stone on steel. Merlin ran his hand down and over the blade, careful to keep the tips of his fingers away from the keen glint of the sword’s edge. As he worked his limbs warmed, muscles in his arms growing hot with protest as he made his way down the racks. How easy it would be to magic the whetstone, to propel it by sheer will, to kick up his feet and relax. But this was foolish—the time it would take to sharpen every blade would be the same, and the risk of discovery far too great. Could he though, with a single word, vanish the nicks and dulled edges, could he remake them new in an instant, with little more than a golden flash of his eyes? His tongue twitched and yearned to taste the roughness of arcane syllables, his fingers drummed against the hilt in anticipation. _Try it, quick, just try_. But there, beyond the walls, heavy footfalls of the knights, gathering already for training. Merlin resumed his monotony, grinding away at the time left.

            At last each sword glistened with malice, sharp enough to split the air as well as a man’s throat. As Merlin piled blade and mail together he listened as pearls of laughter trickled in through cracks in the stone, heard the men guffaw at some shared yarn. Merlin cocked his head, perked up his ears, trying to catch the voice, louder now to make itself heard over the gathered men’s raucous mirth. Poking his head through the armory door, Merlin spied Arthur, padded vest open across his chest, arm cradled in a sling round his neck, enshrined by a circle of knights, slapping their knees and wiping tears from their eyes as Arthur gestured wildly with his uninjured hand.

            “So it’s clear to me that _Mer_ lin’s going to be no help, so there I am, face to face with the beast—”

            “And how big was it, Sire?” Sir Galland asked, leaning forward eagerly.

            “Bigger than Sir Joran’s mother.” Arthur smirked, clapped a hand on a young knight’s shoulder as the others hooted and jostled the poor boy with playful shoves. “—so there I am, staring into its face, massive thing, all teeth and—”

            “Arthur.”

            The smile dropped from Arthur’s face as he turned to Merlin, who’d crept forward as Arthur had enchanted his audience with bravado tale.

            “Not now, Merlin. Where was I? Ah, so I raise my sword as the beast lunges towards me—”

            “Arthur—” Merlin tried again, bold voiced, but Arthur paid him no heed.

            “—and trust me, I gave as good as I got, but before I know it the damned thing’s knocked me down, so then I—”

            “Arthur!”

            Arthur spun round, hoisted Merlin by the collar of his tunic and walked him backwards, just far enough to the knights couldn’t hear his forced whisper.

            “What part of _shut up_ are you having trouble understanding?”

            “Gaius said you weren’t to go to any trainings.”

            “Well last time I check, Gaius wasn’t the Prince. Now go fetch my sword.” Arthur made to turn away, and Merlin reached out to stop him, but too quick, grabbing his elbow, tucked up against Arthur’s chest where it was slung in fresh cloth. Arthur’s neck snapped round with a growl, teeth barred in an angry snarl. Merlin leapt back, releasing his hold on Arthur as his heart beat madness in his chest. Turning, Arthur stalked towards his knights, barking for them to fall into position for the start of training.

            For the rest of the afternoon Merlin stood numbly on the sidelines, watching Arthur correcting a knight’s stance, demonstrating the proper form for parrying this or that blow, drilling them on footwork, on formation, on shield and sword and mace. Other than to demand such or such arm Arthur did not speak to Merlin at all, did not acknowledge his presence, hovering, watching from the periphery. _At least he is not sparring._ When at last the knights, bruised, battered, and nearly dead on their feet, were finally released Arthur brushed past Merlin, throwing back over his shoulder,

            “Fetch my supper, and don’t forget my medicine.”

            “Yes, Sire.”

            But Arthur was already too far gone to hear him.

 

 

            Marge had cooked up roast pheasant that evening, stuffed with wild rice and minced meat, dressed on a bed of greens. Though he was sorely tempted Merlin resisted the urge to nibble on the succulent meal wafting odorous delights inches from his face as he stomped his way through the citadel, Arthur’s morning accusation too fresh in his mind. _How had Arthur known_ , Merlin could not help but wonder, _did I really eat that much that he saw the absence on his plate_?

            Arthur, seated in preparation at his table, looked up as Merlin walked into the room, clapping his hands as he placed the plate before his Prince.

            “Excellent, I’m starving,” Arthur said, picking up his fork and knife, carving into the trussed up bird.

            “Yes, I’m sure disobeying your physician’s explicit instructions works up an appetite.”

            “I know I call you a girl, Merlin, but that doesn’t mean you have to act like one. You’re not my mother.” Arthur sliced off a bit of thigh, popping the strip of pale meat into his mouth.

            “I would certainly hope not, not with the way you treat me.” Merlin looked up from gathering Arthur’s boots ( _how can a man supposedly confined to bed rest scuff up so many boots?_ ) and caught the Prince mulling over his morsel of food, chewing in slow, exaggerated bites. “What’s wrong?”

            “Marge overcooked the pheasant. It’s dry as dust, practically inedible.” Arthur dropped his silverware and pushed his plate across the table. “Send it back and have her whip something else up for me.” Merlin scoffed incredulously, mouth hanging open in disbelief.

            “Are you joking? Me, send a meal back to Marge? She’ll bake me into a pie!”

            “And I’m sure it’ll be delicious as long as she doesn’t overcook _it_ too. Now off you go.” Arthur shooed Merlin from the room with a wave of his hand.

            Merlin seethed and grumbled as he descended the many stairs down to the kitchens, picking at the pheasant as we went. Clearly Arthur, for all his noble blood and high birth, lacked even the most basic culinary appreciation, palette the very opposite of refined—the bird was exquisite, spiced to perfection, juicy and tender as any meal Merlin had ever tasted. Surely this was vengeance for Merlin’s earlier obduracy, revenge for his well-meaning insolence. Arthur lacked the decency to punish Merlin by his own hand, outsourcing his displeasure to Marge instead. Merlin shuddered at the thought of her reaction when he told her she’d botched the Prince’s meal— _don’t shoot the messenger indeed._

            “Oi, what are ye doing back here?” Marge scowled at him, turning from her stew, which boiled over a great flame. Merlin eyed the wooden spoon dangling from the hand perched on her hip. Marge nodded her chins at the bones on the platter Merlin still clutched in his hand, glistening, pick-cleaned by hungry fingers. “Let me guess, Arthur wants another helping, does he? Everybody loves my stuffed pheasant.” Marge beamed with pride as she wiped her hands off on her apron.

            “Uh, well, no, actually.” Marge narrowed her glare, waiting. Merlin licked his lips, wondering just how fast the opulent chef could lunge. As he scanned the kitchens his eyes fell upon a bowl filled with raw hunks of meat, set aside for some dish-to-be. _Well, Arthur_ did _say the pheasant was overcooked_ … “Just fetching some treats for the hounds,” Merlin said, shucking off the pheasant remains, gingerly plucking a few strips from the bowl and laying them on the tray. “The kennel master said they did great work today and wanted to give them a treat.” Merlin flicked his wrist, sending a rain of red droplets splashing onto the floor.

            “Sure, take all my meat and give it to the dogs, but who’ll feed ‘em when we all starve to death, hmm?” Marge groaned, rolling her eyes, before turning back to stir her stew.

            Merlin fled back towards Arthur’s chambers, self-satisfied grin plumping his cheeks. _Serves Arthur right for the way he treats me. Well we’ll see how he likes_ this. Arthur had not moved from his seat at the table, but as Merlin approached he straightened up, rolling his eyes as he bemoaned the “seemingly endless wait.”

            “Sorry, Sire, but I think this meal will be more to your liking.” Merlin produced the platter from behind his back with a little flourish, bending at the waist to bow as he stretched out his arm till the plate hovered in front of Arthur’s face. “I had Marge make it extra rare, as per your request.”

            At first Arthur’s mouth turned down in a sour grimace as he eyed the unappetizing flesh before him. Blood pooled out around the mound of raw meat, like a burnt clay mountain surrounded by a muddied moat. But as he sniffed, nostrils flared wide, his disgust faded and gave way, eyes crinkled in piqued curiosity. With tentative fingers Arthur pinched a strip and brought it to his lips. He nibbled a corner, teeth tearing off the tiniest morsel possible. As he chewed his eyes grew wide with delight and he stuffed the rest into his mouth, barely chewing, swallowing the chunk practically whole. Aghast, Merlin felt his stomach churn and threatened to spill forth onto the Prince’s floor as Arthur took the plate from him, shoveling the strips of raw meat into his mouth fast as he could.

            “This is delicious!” Arthur managed between mouthfuls, thin line of blood rolling down his chin. “Tell Marge from now on all my meals are to be prepared in this fashion.” Arthur bent his head, intent on inhaling the meat as quickly as possible. He ate like a man starved, like a dog kept days in a cage, like he’d never seen food before and would never again. Merlin felt himself grow faint watching, the color draining from his face as his legs wobbled and his stomach tightened threateningly. Arthur looked up at the noise as Merlin fell against a chair, clutching the back to steady himself.

            “Did you want to try some?” Arthur offered a thin strip, pressed between thumb and forefinger. Merlin, not trusting his stomach enough to venture opening his mouth, just shook his head no. Arthur shrugged and resumed devouring the bloody remains on his plate. “Suit yourself. That will be all then, Merlin.”

            Merlin turned and fled as bile clawed its way up his throat, filling his mouth with acrid dread.

 

 

            “Raw meat, Gaius, he ate _raw_ meat!” Merlin gestured emphatically, trying his best to stress the gravity of the situation, as Gaius puttered about the room, stacking books on the shelf. Wooden bowls, sticky and forgotten with the remains of dinner, sat idly on the low table.

            “I’ll admit it’s a bit strange—”

            “ _Strange_? It was downright revolting!”

            “—but I’m sure it’s nothing to be concerned about. I’ve heard raw meat is considered a delicacy in Mercia.”

            “Arthur’s never been to Mercia,” Merlin pointed out, voice low and resolute. Gaius hefted the remaining books onto the table and turned with an exasperated sign to his young assistant.

            “There is nothing to worry about, Merlin. Arthur is recovering from a terrible shock—as are you. It’s only natural that some peculiarities crop up during the process.” Merlin crossed his arms and huffed. Gaius meant well, wanting only to assuage Merlin’s fears, but he couldn’t help but feel miffed at having his concerns so absently waved away.

            “It’s not just the meat,” Merlin continued, determined to make Gaius believe, “earlier at training he snapped at me.”

            “Merlin, you more than anyone should be accustomed to Arthur’s moods.”

            “But this was _different_ , Gaius, he…he practically bit my head off!” Merlin gripped the table, leaning across it to peer into the older man’s face. “It scared me.” Merlin’s eyes caught the candlelight; orange flickers danced on blue, shimmered in the wet globes, disappearing with each blink, only to spring back to life a second later. Gaius rested a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, brow furrowed, sympathetic smile tugging at his lips.

            “You’ve had a long day—why don’t you rest? I’ll clean up here. You’ll see, in a few days everything will be back to normal.”

            And so it was. Not normal—Merlin, though young, was nowhere near naïve enough to believe life in Camelot could ever approach anything even resembling normalcy—but routine. By degrees Arthur healed from his injuries, testing a little more each day the limits of his arm, holding one, then two, then three books in his outstretched palm, relishing in the pull of the weight. Despite Merlin’s insistence he continued to supervise trainings, gradually submerging himself back into sparring and drills, slowly, like lowering oneself into a steaming bath, careful not to get burnt. His pallet’s newfound proclivities persisted; now every meal consisted of some bloody steak, the fresher the better, torn from some still-dying beast. With voracious hunger he ate, hunched over his plate, face inches from the table, barely using his hands at all, practically nuzzling the meat like a wild boar, snout buried. Minutes later, platter licked clean, face a red mess, Arthur would kick back, patting his sated belly, letting out a long howl of satisfaction.

            He never snapped at Merlin again, never once snarled or barred his teeth in anger like a mad dog. True, Merlin had taken great care to pepper his chores with humility, responding to every command with an obsequious _of course, Sire_ or _right away, your Grace_ , the perfect picture of a sycophantic servant. Merlin’s life had become a giant, frozen lake—every step crinkled and cracked beneath his weight, threatening to be his last, threatening to swallow him up within the endless depths. Any word would set him off, could trigger some rage sleeping just below the surface, woken by a misplaced sneer.

            Arthur, of course, noticed none of this. At most he commended Merlin on his newfound obedience, praising him as one would a pet that had learned a new trick. If he were concerned at his change in tastes he made no comment. Merlin bubbled with repressed outrage, wanting more than anything to shout, to shake him, to make him see— _why, why now do you yearn for the taste of blood, why do you sleep curled atop your bed instead of beneath the sheets, why do you look at me as if you’re wondering how my throat tastes?_

            But Merlin said nothing.

            So a week came to pass and Gaius proclaimed Arthur fully healed, marveling at the speed with which the Prince had convalesced, his wounds leaving not but the faintest of scars, whispers against the bronze of his skin. Like a child on his birthday Arthur took to the training fields, twirling his sword as if he were leading a parade, all joy and laughter and muscles aching to burn with renewed effort. He battled every knight who would that day, besting them all, beating them with the savagery of violence too long restrained. The hour came and went and still Arthur called for challengers. His knights, bruised and battered, were reluctant to deny their Prince this simple pleasure, but at last they all bowed to his strength, begging mercy and the chance to massage their hurts with a hardy meal and a heady drink. Arthur watched them leave, staying behind to beat at a practice dummy till his fingers blistered and his face dripped. Dismissed, Arthur having told him he could see to himself that night, Merlin laid on his bed and thought, worrying himself to sleep hours later, when the wick of his candle had burnt low and the sun had begun to kiss the sky awake.

            It seemed, though, just as he shut his eyes he was being shaken, Gaius stooped over his bed, a basket crooked round his elbow.

            “Hurry, Merlin, you know dawn is the best time to gather herbs.”

            Somewhere in his mind Merlin recalled this chore, some passing word about _diminishing supplies_ and _restocking_ , but his head was cottoned with too few hours of sleep, so it was in a daze that he dressed, fitting his tunic over his head and toeing his feet into his boots. The daybreak air was crisp; Merlin hugged his jacket close against his body, hands shoved beneath his arms, clasped against his sides for warmth. The first blush of dawn painted the clouds rose-petal, a thin mist hung low, close to the ground, wisps swirling round their legs as they made their way to the woods surrounding the citadel.

            The work, though tedious, was not overly tiring, consisting mainly of Gaius pointing to this or that clump of grass and Merlin bending down to pluck the medicinal leaves hidden therein. Still, by the time the sun as lit the trees alight with its first rays, and the basket slung over Gaius’ wrist, though not full but sufficiently matted in green, Merlin’s back ached from his prolonged, bent angle. Stretching towards the heavens he felt his muscles tug and loosen as he smoothed his hands soothingly over his protesting spine.

            In their absence the lower town had awoken. Now, townsfolk milled about, opening stalls and stands piled with produce and goods for sale. Forges coughed and sputtered to life, black smoke coiling above their heads. Conversation mingled with gossip and shouts, mixed with the bleating of goats and the clucks of chickens, a cacophony of domesticity. Above the din rose a woman’s wailing, sharp and high.

            “My chickens, they killed my chickens!”

            Gaius and Merlin wended their way through the crowd, following the woman’s cries, till they spotted her, leaning despondent against the side of a squat, mud-colored home. Beside her sat a pen, boxed in by rough sticks lashed together. As they approached she tore at her hair, tears streaking down her face. They did not bother to ask what was the matter—looking down into the pen the answer was evident enough.

            The remains of four hens lay scattered about the enclosure, feathers gusting in the breeze, ground stained an ugly, dark red. Something had snuck into town in the night. A wolf, most likely, had jumped the little fence and torn the fowl asunder. Truly the beast must have been starving to range so far from the woods, to risk venturing into town. _Poor woman_ , Merlin though, knowing full well the type of hunger such a loss could bring to bear upon a family—in Ealdor livestock were life itself, as vital as the crops the villagers toiled after. As Gaius bent to examine the carcasses Merlin made a note to mention the woman’s plight to Morgana, who always seemed to have a few coins stashed away to give as Maundy.

            When Gaius righted at last they turned and made for the citadel, but as they passed the water pump Merlin remembered that Arthur had not bathed the night before. Just the thought of the Prince’s stench, musk thick from sweat lingering overnight, was enough to wrinkle his nose. He bade Gaius continue without him, stopping by the pump, snatching up an idle bucket, vowing to return it when he had the chance.

            The metal curve of the bucket’s handle cut into Merlin’s fingers, the weight pitching his body forward as he stumbled through the courtyard, up the many stairs leading to Arthur’s chambers. With each step water sloshed dangerously up the rim, threatening to spill forward and splash onto his boots. The corridor was mercifully free of guards as Merlin hefted his load the final few feet towards Arthur’s door, and it was with great relief that his eyes flashed gold, the lock clicked open, and Merlin pushed his body into the room.

            Merlin had been right to draw a bath—a pungent odor, a heavy miasma clogged Merlin’s nose, weighed him down further with every breath. The air, thick with the smell of it, tasted faintly of copper. Arthur, little more than a blanket-covered lump on the bed, did not stir as Merlin shuffled forward, tendons in his arms screaming protests. Merlin made his way around the bed, towards the dressing screen, behind which the wooden tub, ringed with iron, sat, gaping and empty.

            “Time to get up, Arthur, I drew you a…” Merlin trailed off, bucket slipping from his fingers to thud onto the floor, his shambling steps halted dead in their tracks as Merlin twisted his neck around to peer over at Arthur, curled up against his pillows.

            Blood. Rust-colored, peeling off in flakes from Arthur’s cheeks and lips, like some dolled-up trollop. At first Merlin though the pillow had torn, loosing its downy contents, for why else would there be so many feathers scattered about the bed? When Arthur rolled over, drawing his arms into his chest, like a child hugging some stuffed toy type in sleep, Merlin saw his hands. Caked in it, his fingernails black under the rim, wisps of plumage stuck in viscous patches.

            Then Arthur stirred, stretching out, his eyes fluttering open. Merlin panicked, heart roaring in his ears. Before he realized it he had hefted the bucket up, had his shoulder underneath it as he flung it, a wave crashing over Arthur, washing away sleep and sin.

            “Merlin!” Arthur, sputtering, shot up from bed, hair plastered to his forward, rivulets running pink down his bare chest, evidence dripping onto the floor. “What on _earth_ is wrong with you?” Furious hands rubbed at Arthur’s face, wiping the wet away, wrists flinging droplets about the room, every movement, every gesture erasing the truth, buying Merlin time.

            “I…well, you always have trouble waking up in the morning, so I figured—”

            “What, figured you’d try and _drown_ me?” Arthur was angry, voice tight and taunt as rope about to split. His cheeks, though washed clean, colored pink with rage, breath short and quick, veins on his neck thick as twigs.

            “I was just…I thought it’d be funny…” Merlin could feel his face flushing, the heat of it making his scalp prick with sweat. He should apologize, should explain, but how to tell Arthur what he saw, what he knows Arthur did? _There is some explanation_ , Merlin reasoned with himself, _I just need time to figure out what it is_.

            “Funny? You think _this—_ ” Arthur gestured to his soaked sheets, to his sodden mattress, to his own drenched body, “—is funny?”

            Merlin didn’t answer, but stared down at his feet, shifting his weight from one to the other. Arthur strode forward, one, two steps, and kicked the bucket, swift, the side of his foot connecting with the curve of its side and sending it shattering against the wall. Merlin jumped at the sound of splinters, at Arthur’s naked aggression. They were close now, faces inches apart. He could feel Arthur’s breath, hot and heavy, steaming out between them, could feel the tension and strength of his body, held so precariously before him. Merlin looked into Arthur’s eyes—and saw _nothing_. Not his reflection, not the cerulean shards he’d grown so accustomed to.

            Emptiness.

            A tremor shook him and Merlin flinched as if burnt. Arthur, too, stepped back, blinking in surprise. His gaze fell to the bucket, broken in a far corner of the room. His shoulders dropped, his body sagged, and his eyes, once more so very blue, stared with sudden comprehension. He started to say something, lips parted, tongue poised on the precipice of speech, but then thought better of it.

            “Clean this up.” Arthur’s tone, once so full of command, now lacked conviction. “And change the sheets on my bed.”

            With surprising efficiency Merlin stripped the bed as Arthur dressed, silence strong as aged spirits between them. Bundled against his chest Merlin hugged the sheets tight, told Arthur he was going to drop these off at the scullery before seeing to his other chores. Arthur only grunted as the door banged shut behind Merlin’s receding form. But Merlin didn’t go to the scullery, turning right instead as he dashed up the stairs, racing back to Gaius, racing towards, _he_ _prayed_ , answers.

            Gaius started when the door banged open, handle rattling, and his eyes blinked behind their spectacles at the swath of white cloth floating in the doorway.

            “Are you lost?” Gaius asked as he rose to his feet. Merlin dropped the blankets, caring little for the tracks he left as he trod over them. “Oh, Merlin! I thought perhaps you were some errant serving girl—”

            “There’s something wrong with Arthur,” Merlin rushed, gripping Gaius’ arm to stress his concern, “something _seriously_ wrong. Just now, in his room I saw—”

            “Feathers? Blood?” Gaius finished for him. Merlin’s eyes went wide, he loosened his hold on Gaius’ arm as he stepped back.

            “How did you…?” Merlin’s mouth went dry, pulse hot and fast. With a great sigh Gaius sat down on the bench beside his worktable, lay his glasses down, pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed tight. For a long moment Merlin watched the tight coil of his adopted father, watched the lines dig into his wizened face, watched his wispy brows inch closer, watched his whole face scrunch into a fist, watched it all be released with a long breath. Gaius stood, finger running over the bookshelf behind him till he alighted upon a thick volume, spine tattered and threadbare. A cloud of dust puffed into the air as the volume fell open on the table, pages crackling with disuse as Gaius flipped through them hastily.

            “At first, I didn’t want to believe,” Gaius darted a glance at Merlin, who perched on the table’s edge with rapt attention, “but then this morning, what we saw in the lower town…Merlin, it was no wolf that killed those chickens. Their necks were broken with keen precision, and the bite marks…were _human_.” Merlin felt faint, gripped the table to remain upright, eyes locked with Gaius’ cocked gaze. “Then I thought about what you’d said earlier, about Arthur.” Gaius, finding at last the page he’d been searching for, flipped the book around and slid it across the table towards Merlin. “And I’m afraid this confirms my suspicions.”

            Merlin peered down at the pages open before him. Atramentous brushstrokes, thick and fine, danced about a woodblock print. A man, hunched over, face twisted in pain, clawed at his skin. Along the line of his spine his back split, ripping at the seams, as a thick pelt pushed through. Mouth hung open in a mad howl, lined with rows of sharp teeth, almost fangs. His limbs, bones bursting out at odd angles, as he fell over onto the ground, on his hands and knees like an animal. And the eyes…his eyes…

            “What is this?” Merlin looked up, color drained from his face.

            “Lycanthropy.” Merlin shook his head, uncomprehending, this, all of it, _too much_.

            “What, what does that mean?”

            “It is a sickness most foul. If a man if bitten by a beast stricken by the disease, he begins to take on aspects of the creature that attacked him.” Merlin glanced down at the figure in the book, shivered. “The illness begins to eat away at his soul, at his humanity, growing stronger every day, till there is nothing but _monster_ inside his heart. If, in his bloodlust he were to take another’s life…” Merlin held Gaius’ gaze as the words hung unspoken between them. The unutterable, the inevitable, the impossible.

            “How do we cure it?”

            “You must slay the original beast, the one that first transmitted the disease to you. Only with its death can the curse be broken.”

            “We have to tell Arthur.”

            “Are you sure that is wise? What if he doesn’t believe you?”

            “We have no choice—his life is in danger. I’ll _make_ him believe.”

 

 

             Like a huntsman Merlin stalked Arthur for the rest of the day, watching him. Every breath, every gesture, the way he joked with his father’s councilmen, the messy knot of his britches, to Merlin’s eyes now betrayed a killer’s heart. He did not want to believe it, fought with all his heart against the truth of it, but there it was, plain as day—an evil thrummed in Arthur, beneath his smile, his easy affection with Gwen, beneath golden, sunlit hair, eating away at him, piece by piece.

            Merlin waited till nightfall, till he was serving Arthur dinner, raw venison steak, bloody and fresh from the hunt. Red waterfall of wine into his chalice, Merlin watched Arthur begin to devour his meal, ripping into it with his bare teeth—they’d abandoned silverware days ago. When Merlin set down the pitcher and remained hovering by Arthur’s shoulder he glanced up, eyes darting beneath long lashes.

            “Is there something you want?” Arthur mouthed behind hunks of meat, cheeks bulging and distended. Merlin felt ill, stomach wound tight in knots, the pain twisting, sharp and piercing, like his insides were trying to get small, like his whole body wanted to compress into itself, to become tinier and tinier, till he disappeared. Arthur swallowed, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “I know what this is about.”

            “Y-you do?” Merlin felt dizzy, blood in his ears making them hot. He watched as Arthur picked up his goblet, drained half of it, sighed like he was preparing for something.

            “I was cross with you this morning. That was…wrong of me. I realize what I said the other day upset you and you were just trying to get even.”

            “The other day?” Merlin blinked, shook his head, trying to understand, feeling like Arthur was speaking another language, like he started a conversation somewhere in the middle. “I wasn’t—”

            “Please.” Arthur held up a hand. Merlin fell silent, waiting. “When the beast attacked…had it not been for you, had you not chased it off and seen to my wounds…I owe you my life.” So tender, the smile that spread across Arthur’s face, like he was waking up, his teeth bright in the darkened room, lighting up his eyes, filling his whole face till it glowed. Merlin’s heart broke, spilling out into his chest, warming every limb down to the tips of his fingers and toes.

Then he remembered and was cold again. He licked his lips, pushed on.

            “Arthur, your life is still in danger.”

            Suddenly the room grew quiet, so quiet Merlin could hear his chest rattling, hear Arthur take a breath, hold it, let it out slow. Stiff as steel and just as sharp.

            “What do you mean? Is someone planning to attack Camelot?” That look in Arthur’s eyes that Merlin had seen so many times before, that conviction, that willingness to die for his people, gladly, if but to save a single life. Merlin trembled with the effort to speech, lost in Arthur’s presence.

            “No, no one is attacking Camelot—”

            “Then what, what is it?” Arthur, pitched forward, chest against the table, voice rich with urgency. “Tell me.”

            “You’re sick—dying.” The words like ashes in Merlin’s mouth. Arthur’s eyes wide, startled motionless, then laughter, tiny nervous laughter bubbling out of Arthur’s belly, louder and stronger with each breath, till his body, the chair, the whole room shook with the force of it. Arthur, gasping for air, wiped tears from his eyes, body still rocking with dying mirth.

            “Oh, Merlin, I’ll admit that was good. You almost had me going there for a second. Not that the health and safety of this kingdom or it’s royal family is any laughing matter—” Arthur darted a stony glare, just for a second, before melting into grins and chuckles once more “—but that has to be one of your best. God, I thought you were going to start crying. You’re good.”

            The whole time Merlin stood frozen, like in a dream where something’s chasing you, but all your movements are in slow-motion, like trying to run through water. And then he burst.

            “Dying! Arthur, you’re dying!” Merlin’s voice louder than he expected, louder than Arthur’s ever heard it, louder than _Merlin’s_ ever heard it. Arthur froze, goblet halfway to his lips. He set the chalice down, sat up straight in his chair, face as rigid as his spine. Leveled his eyes at Merlin, took in the whole of him, spoke in that voice reserved for the throne room.

            “You’ve had your fun and your joke’s over now. Make sure to grab my armor on your way out—it needs polishing.”

            “Arthur, when the creature bit you it—”

            “Enough!” Arthur shouted, fist slamming down onto the table, making the plates and cups shiver. But Merlin pushed on, louder.

            “—it made you sick, can’t you see you’ve been changing, the meat, your sense of smell—”

            “Merlin, I order you to shut up.”

            “—and it will only get worse unless we act _now_ , Sire, if we don’t—”

            Arthur stood, chair falling backwards with the speed of his rise. Arthur pushed his chest out against Merlin, filling the room with himself till Merlin nearly drowned in him. But he kept struggling, kept fighting.

            “—if we don’t do something soon you—” Merlin grabbed Arthur’s shoulders, shook him, realized too late what he had done.

            Arthur did not touch him. Did not flinch away. Only looked at him, only took in the full of him with those eyes. Those eyes that had seen death. Looked at him.

            Merlin let go, stepped away, struck dumb. Bowed his head, tried, failed to mutter some apology. Without a word Arthur righted his chair and sat, picked up his steak and continued eating. Silent as the night Merlin slipped from the room, whole soul aching.

 

 

            Sleep never came to Merlin that night. Hours spent staring up at the ceiling, at the veins running along the wooden beams above his head. Slow as breathing and just as endless. He watched the sun ooze across his windowsill and spill onto the floor. Body heavy against his bed, a struggle to sit up. With the heel of his palm Merlin rubbed at his eyes, dry and scratchy, tried to press them back into his skull, squeezed them shut tight, all the muscles of his face working towards one point at the top of the bridge of his nose. So the world would be different when he opened them.

            But it wasn’t.

            Gaius snored softly on his bed as Merlin crept from the room, soft leather of his boots whispering with the floorboards, the latch a thunderclap in the quiet of the morning. A pang shot through Merlin’s stomach at the thought of breakfast, imagining the thick scent of porridge, at the warmth of the bowl cupped in his hands. But Merlin didn’t trust himself to eat.

            So quiet, the hush like a chill, lying across your shoulders till your body was heavy with it. Merlin’s footfalls boomed in the empty corridors. Far below him, kitchen fires stoked to life by drowsy hands still half-asleep. Far off on the ramparts guards, eyes nearly closed, relieved at last, stumbled into Somnus’ arms. Above them all, so high they might be clouds, slept the nobles—Morgana, satin soft as water over the curve of her hip, the gentle swell of her breasts, hair raven against the snow of her pillows, Uther, austere even in sleep, resting beneath simple cotton, heavy head at peace at last, if only for a few hours. And Arthur—

            Arthur.

            As soon as Merlin rounded the corner he knew something was afoul. The noise, the noise, tumbling, rumbling out of his room, the scrape of wood, clinking clattering sound of metal. Fast, that sound only speed can belie, the quality of urgency. In Merlin’s mind madness and horror sprang forth—Arthur, writhing on the floor as his skin ripped asunder, mouth twisted in macabre suffering, jaw distended and elongated, his eyes…his eyes…

            In three bounding steps Merlin reached the door, tore it from its hinges in his haste, dashed into Arthur’s room.

            “Merlin! Thank goodness you’re here. Quick, run and prepare the horses.” Arthur looked up from the belt he was attempting to buckle around his waist, the brown dull against the background of glittering chainmail. Merlin glanced at the window, at the weak light that poured forth. Arthur rose, if at all, late, had to be forced from slumber, roused by guile, by force, by sheer repetitious willpower. Yet here he stood, boots and armor and all, looking at Merlin as if he were coming to breakfast at the bell tower’s third toll. “Well don’t just stand there, Merlin, hurry up!”

            “The…horses, Sire?” Merlin’s mind felt foggy, a dull haze clinging to the periphery of his vision. Surely Arthur couldn’t want to hunt so early? “The hour—”

            “—is ours if we can act fast. We still have the chance to catch them unawares, but not if you continue to stand their running your mouth.” Arthur hung his sword from his hip, gripped his gloves in a fist.

            “Them? I don’t…” Arthur brushed past Merlin, who turned, scrambling to follow as the Prince strode through the citadel, descending towards the armory.

            “Bandits, Merlin, the bandits who attacked us. The morning sentry spotted them and rode back to alert me. There are less of them than there were a week ago, and now the element of surprise is on our side.” Arthur selected a crossbow, slung it across his shoulder, thrust a quiver into Merlin’s hands. A band of knights, glints of silver light, bundled into the armory, and Arthur, Merlin forgotten, huddled them close, murmuring strategy and numbers.

            Merlin’s feet carried him out the courtyard and to the stables, to that familiar smell of oiled leather and shit, of horse musk and hay. Whinnies soared to the wooden ceiling beams as squires brushed down the horses with hurried hands, tossing saddles across their backs. The air filled with the snapping of buckles, the sound of tightening straps. Merlin popped open the paddock, approached the two gelding tethered there. For years Arthur’s horse had enjoyed its spacious freedom, sequestered in the stable’s largest stall with nothing but the buzz of flies for company. Yet ever since Merlin took to riding the brunneous male kept on reserve the two had been inseparable, kicking at the walls of their stalls till the stable boys begged the King to allow the horses to be housed together. Uther relented at his son’s request.

            “There, there boys. Let’s get you saddled up.” Merlin cooed softly to them, wedging himself between the bulk of their torsos, lifting their saddles off the low dividing wall, settling them across their rippled backs. All the while their umbrous eyes followed him, round stones rubbed smooth by a river’s touch. “Ride safe today,” Merlin whispered, righting the stirrup on Arthur’s saddle, “please.” Conical ears twitched, swiveled, as if listening.

            “Finally!” Arthur shouted as Merlin led the horses out into the courtyard, gray in the dawning light. Arthur alone still stood on his own two feet, encircled by knights towering upon their mounts. The _clip-clop_ of hooves on the cobblestone rose and rang against the darkened windows holding vigil. Foot hooked in a stirrup, Arthur swung himself up before Merlin had even dropped the reins. Quickly after Merlin followed, scrambling onto his own horse, which stayed dutifully beside Arthur’s.

            Arthur swept his head round, took in the faces of the men gathered before him, the bleary eyes, the chins rough with stubble. Faces of men. Of boys. Of sons and brothers. Of friends. All of them, ready and willing to die for their kingdom, for their honor, for their Prince.

For Arthur.

            With a kick of his heels Arthur spurred his horse out the courtyard, and like a thunderstorm they rolled across the land.

 

 

            Twelve of them, spread out into three camps in the curve of a valley, tucked behind bushes and copses of trees beneath an overhang. The thin, gray line of smoke from their campfire had given them away. How desperate they must have been in the early morning chill to attempt something so foolish—how cruel it is that our bodies are always the ones to betray us.

            On the ridge above the knights fanned out, chocking the valleys’ exits, circling, hovering like buzzards before a slaughter. Ten trained men, armored, with castle-forged steel, against twelve exhausted peasants turned to thievery, knives nicked from kitchens, dull with time and use. What else could you call it other than butchery?

            They had abandoned the horses a good ways back, proceeding, for the benefit of stealth, on foot, padded leather soles quiet on the bed of leaves littered on the forest floor. Arthur crouched low behind an outcropping of rock, waited for the glint of sun from the opposite ridge, the signal that everyone was in position. Below them, the sounds of sleep, a grumble from a sentry. Merlin felt the coil of muscles tighten in Arthur’s arms, felt his body tense like a spring. Beneath the thin veil of skin blood raced up his neck, veins pulsing. His breath came hot and fast.

            For a man trained since birth to fight, Arthur detested battle. A blur, he called it, of screaming metal, of pain and loss and death. A good man, he’d told Merlin once, an honorable knight, never fought if he could prevent it, never reveled in the taking of another’s life. How many times had Merlin attended to his Prince on the eve of some skirmish, brewing ginger tea to settle his stomach, riled by nerves? How often had he reassured him that theirs was a just cause, that this was the sole option for the betterment of the kingdom? Merlin could not count the occasions Arthur, with grace and guile, had avoided conflict through negotiation, through compromise and diplomacy.

            And look at him now, poised on the edge, hand hard on the hilt of his sword. Arthur hungered for the rush of battle, for the sight of men dead and dying. His eyes, wide and wild in their sockets.

            “Attack!” Arthur shouted as he lunged up from behind a boulder, vaulting over to plunge into the valley below. A half-heartbeat later the knights surged forth, cloaks flapping crimson as they fell, armor incandescent. Merlin tumbled after, almost losing his short-sword in the fall. His knees slammed onto the unyielding ground, stiff pain shooting up his thighs as he scrambled to his feet.

            All around him the roar of battle deafened the forest, drowned out the stillness with the sing of dancing swords. Already three bandits lay dead, sternums slit open like curtain to reveal the raw, red dawn of their hearts. A handful stood and fought, backs against the rough stone of the valley cliffs, but—be it gods or just the numbers—luck was against them, and these too soon fell. Arthur, feet wide, planted in the earth, spun his torso as his sword swam across a bandit’s belly, body crumpling at his feet. As if some signal had been given those who were not dead and helplessly pinned behind an impenetrable barrier of knights turned tail and fled, branches clutching at their arms as they sped away in all directions. Before Arthur could even give the order his men scattered in pursuit.

            Merlin and Arthur were alone in the valley. Distant footfalls, somewhere far off a shout. Heavy breathing, Arthur’s chest heaving. Merlin, heady dizzy, leaned an arm against the rock wall to steady himself. He looked up at the dull _clang_ of steel dropping to the ground.

            “Arthur?” Merlin pushed himself forward, reached a hand out to Arthur, who stood still as stone, save for his shoulders, rising and falling with each wave of breath. Gently, as one would approach a skittish mare, Merlin laid a hand on Arthur’s back.

            At Merlin’s touch Arthur wheeled around, shoved Merlin backward. The push held force, belied Arthur’s strength, and Merlin stumbled blindly till his back connected hard with the cliff face, head knocking against the stone. As he blinked the stars from his eyes Arthur pressed against him, lodging his body over Merlin’s, locking him against the rough stone behind him. Merlin struggled, pushed his hands against Arthur’s chest, but Arthur, too big, too strong, held him. Merlin twisted his face round, felt the bite of torn skin as the back of his neck scraped against a jagged edge.

            “Arthur, please…” Merlin whispered as a hand crept up to his throat, fingers wrapping round his pulse like a stiff collar. Arthur snarled, face inches from Merlin’s, as his grip tightened. In the corner of his eyes the blood vessels grew engorged, coloring the white a sickly pink. Dirty nails clawed at Arthur’s hand, fists beat against the Prince’s chest, but Merlin was too weak, and now the air was leaving him. On the edges of his visions shadows crept forward, clouding his sight with darkness. A sickening crunch came from Merlin’s throat as he felt his windpipe start to collapse. Though his mouth hung open, tongue fat, lulling over his bottom lip, only a strangled gurgle fell forth. With a final kick Merlin’s strength left him, the world faded before him, reduced to nothing but the sight of those eyes, those suffering, uncaring eyes watching him die.

            Somewhere to the left at the valley’s entrance a twig snapped underfoot. In the silence of the moment it sounded like a thunderclap. Arthur shot round, neck twisted at a sharp angle, and slightly, ever so slightly, he loosened his hold on Merlin’s throat.

            Merlin did not summon the magic, which rose from its coiled seat deep in his body. But he felt it, felt it climb and build and spill forth, felt the burn behind his eyes as it was released. Above, a crack shot through the cliff, a rock the size of a fist tumbled down to crash upon Arthur’s crown. That sound, of stone on bone, then Arthur collapsing, dragging Merlin down with him, his body crumbling beneath Arthur’s. The exquisite weight of him, crushing him, pressing him into the ground till the wet smell of dirt and leaves filled his nostrils.

            “Help…somebody help…” Merlin tried to cry out, but little more than a hoarse whisper rose from him, daggers digging at the insides of his mouth with each syllable. Merlin could not push Arthur off, could not roll him over, his body drained and faded, Arthur limp above him. A warm raindrop fell on Merlin’s cheek, and when he wiped it away his fingers came back red. Arthur’s hair, the back of his head, matted wet with blood. “Please…somebody…”

            Soon the knights found them, lifted them onto their horses, rode at breakneck speeds back to Camelot, back to Gaius. But Merlin doesn’t remember any of this. Only remembered the world above him, the canopy of leaves, growing fainter and fainter, the sky burning white, as Arthur bled onto his face, as his body went cold. Merlin remembered the weight of fatigue dragging him beneath the ocean of sleep, that wave of unconsciousness lapping at the shore of his mind. Only the sensation of floating up, up and away as the world vanished before his eyes.

 

 

            For a long while existence was nothing but a tight ball of discomfort lodged in Merlin’s throat. Flashes of night, weathered hands on his head, the blistering sweat of fever, delirious dreams. Pain inching its way down his chest to settle on his heart, the heavy weight of it pressing, so much like Arthur’s body.

_Arthur…_

            When Merlin first fluttered back to consciousness it was but a brief moment. Candles hummed soft light around Merlin’s bed, votive warmth basking the room in gentle oranges. Shadows danced with the breeze. Gaius, hands tender as a mother’s, lifted Merlin’s head, tipped a wooden cup to his lips. Water spike with medicine, bitter and cool. Before his head hits the pillow Merlin was asleep.

            Hours later, he awoke once more. Afternoon light burned in the window, the glass white with the glow of it. An itch wiggled in Merlin’s throat and he tried to cough it away, but his muscles spasmed, shooting needles up to the base of his tongue and down to the top of his stomach. For a perilous moment Merlin worried he would be sick, but then passed. When he opened his mouth to call for Gaius he found he could not speak—a hoarse croak, sharp and rough as stone in his throat. His mouth was dry and the cup beside his bed empty.

            As he stepped out of bed the room spun, just once, a full circle around his head. He forced himself still, gripping the sheets as he sunk down onto the floor. Deep breaths, in and out through his nose. In time this too passed.

            Gaius looked up when Merlin gingered down the stairs from his room to come sit at the low table across from the aged physician. Old fingers slid a teacup towards him. The clay warmed his fingers when he took it. Honeyed, so sweet Merlin felt tears prick in his eyes. Once he’d downed the cup, Merlin tried to speak again, but though thawed, his throat still constricted against his words, offering little more than a puff of air pushed over his teeth. Gaius shushed him, clucking his tongue for silence.

            “Don’t strain yourself, Merlin. You’ll be fine in a day or two, longer if you try and force your recovery. The bandit who did this was trying to kill you. Thank God they didn’t succeed.” Gaius smiled, tender as the dawn, and patted Merlin’s shoulder. Eyes so full of love. Merlin turned up the corner of his lips, but his smile died there.

            Just then he remembered, perking up. But his word clung to his throat, refused to live beyond Merlin’s breath.

            “ _A_ … _Ar…_ ” Merlin rubbed at his neck, as if he could coax the name forth. Gaius waved him silent, rifled through his piles of books in search of quill and parchment. All the while Merlin whispered his monosyllabic litany. “ _Ar…A…_ ”

            At last Merlin could not wait, grabbed the trailing loop of Gaius’ sleeve, shook it till he looked at him. Curling his fingers into a fist, Merlin brought his hand above his head, brought it down on the top of his scalp. Wide-eyed realization.

            “Arthur? He’s fine. Resting in his chambers—”

            Merlin sprung to his feet, made for the door.

            “—as you should be!”

            But Gaius spoke only to the door, swinging shut.

 

 

            Merlin watched Arthur sleep. Golden hair hidden beneath the white of his bandages, head against the cream pillow, skin paler than it should be. Merlin told himself it was the contrast, just the lighting, his imagination. If only Merlin could bring himself to touch he knew Arthur’s face would be warm beneath his fingertips. But Merlin was unworthy, Arthur underserving.

            How shallow, his breath. Merlin ghosted a finger beneath his nose, felt the slow push of air. The sheets barely moved. Arthur looked lain out for burial. Merlin pushed the thought away, held it down beneath the surface of oblivion until it drowned.

            Wouldn’t it have been easier though, in some sense, if one, or both, of them had died? So much struggling. So much fighting. When would it end? Even if they cured Arthur of this curse, what next? What fresh hell would surface, inflicting itself upon Albion? And if they couldn’t find the beast, couldn’t kill it? That bitter taste of failure in the back of Merlin’s throat. _Destiny_. Never to rest, never to bask in the cradle of peace. Oh, how Merlin wanted to walk out into the river of life and let the current carry him away. So simple, to lift the pillow beside Arthur’s head, to press it down upon his face, close as a lover, to hold it there till that soft breeze stopped. Even now his fingers twitched and inched forward, the crescent of his nails so close a wisp of feather tickled the pad of his thumb.

            And then those eyes looked at him and all such thoughts vanished. Blue the way the sky was in summer. Like fresh water. Blue the way wind felt in springtime when it brought the scent of wildflowers to your nose. And within that blue Merlin felt himself drowning, felt himself dipping below the surface as Arthur took in the full of him, held him with a gaze stronger than any man’s arms. Oh, he would suffer, Merlin knew, but to be looked at in such a way was worth all the fires of damnation. If but for a moment to be seen the way Arthur saw him now.

            “Merlin…oh God, Merlin…” Arthur’s voice wobbled, trembled when he spoke. With his elbows he played at sitting up, but then there were the tips of Merlin’s fingers, gentle and incessant, laying him back down to rest. “Are you alright?” Merlin blinked, rubbed at his throat. Shrugged. “Gaius told me we nearly lost you. Said some bandit almost choked the life right out of you.” What witty banter would Merlin have slung could he have spoken? He thought for a moment, attempted a pantomime, fell still. Arthur refused to look away, the bob of his Adam’s apple pronounced with each swallow. “But it wasn’t a bandit, was it, Merlin?” A shiver up his spine. Merlin, paralyzed, could not break Arthur’s gaze. “It was me…wasn’t it?” Merlin didn’t nod his head _yes_. Didn’t shake his head _no_ , either. “Oh God…oh God, Merlin…” Tears welled up in Arthur’s eyes, pooling and spilling forth to stain his face. His hand found Merlin’s, squeezed it. “You were right…oh God, you were right. I was so stupid, I should have listened to you, I…I almost killed you…Oh God, please, Merlin, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry…” Arthur babbled, words wet with grief as he clung to Merlin’s wrist.

            What could Merlin say?

            Nothing.

            So he sunk to his knees. Stone floor cold and hard beneath him. Lay his head on Arthur’s chest. Rode the rocking waves of his Prince’s sobs.

 

**Chapter Three: Waning**

 

            Mud brown roofs freckled the low plain, thin gray lines of smoke mingling above the thatched housetops. Were it not for the buoyant glow of lanterns wandering from door to door, Merlin and Arthur would never have known the sleepy town was even there.

            The tops of Merlin’s thighs, the strong curve of his backside, ached as he shifted in his saddle. But every movement, though it brought relief to one tensed muscle, always pressured another. Unavoidable discomfort.. They’d rode hard for the better half of a day, and it showed in the prolonged wail of Merlin’s back. Like a starving whore, hips spread so wide Merlin worried he’d waddle for the rest of his life.

            Beside him Arthur perched, quiet and still as one of the citadel’s gargoyles, face a stony mask, eyes hard as they scanned the bare wood-beams, the shoddy, ill-fitting doors, the carrel with its meager goats chewing tufts of bitter earth. Just like the last three towns.

            “We’ll find some answers here, Arthur, I can feel it.”

            So slight, the curve of Arthur’s neck as he turned to look at Merlin, corner of his lip worried between his teeth. Voice so quiet.

            “I hope so.” Spurring his horse forward they made their way down the hillside.

            For weeks now they’d been on the hunt. At first they hadn’t the slightest idea where to go—the trail in the forest, if cold before, was now frozen. Arthur suggested searching blindly, but Merlin counselled him against it. Miles and miles of forest dotted the lands surrounding Camelot, speckled with caves and valleys and mountains, any of which could easily hide the beast. Merlin understood Arthur’s frustration—every day the Prince grew more haggard, the circles under his eyes hued a deeper shade of purple, ends of his nails gnawed ragged. But storming off without plan nor trail into the wilderness would solve nothing.

            As it often was, Gaius stumbled upon a solution by sheer chance. An old acquaintance, a fellow physician in an outlying village, wrote to Gaius seeking his medical opinion—a bite, as if from some great hound, which festered and refused to heal, even when faced with the most potent remedies. Arthur had insisted they ride out that very night, and it was with the gray inklings of dawn that they had arrived at the physician’s doorstep. Merlin had feigned urgency, claiming Gaius simply could not wait for a courier and had sent his assistant instead. Already Arthur was stalking the surrounding area, crouched low to the ground, sniffing for prints. Hoping to question him, Merlin asked to see the patient, but he’d died in the night from his wounds. Arthur returned a short while later, empty-handed and furious. On the ride back to Camelot Merlin soothed, or tried, at least, Arthur’s ire, pointing out that at least now they had a plan.

            Gaius wrote to every village, hamlet, squalor, and molehill within a week’s ride of Camelot, calling upon physicians and midwives and herbalists for any stirring or rumors of similar attacks. Most replies, when they came at all, were filled with well wishes, phrases such as _been too long_ and _meant to write sooner_ , but little in the way of useful information. That was until a week ago, when a goodwife wrote saying not three days past a young boy had been found in the woods, torn apart as if by some terrible beast. Arthur, armed with crossbow and embittered steel, told his father he was riding out for a hunting trip, and in the blaze of the afternoon sun Merlin and he had slipped away.

            So close, they’d been _so close_. After a townsperson had indicated where the boy’s body had been found Arthur effortlessly picked up the trail, fresh in the rain-soaked mud. For days they’d followed the prints, through bush and over stream, Arthur like a man possessed, tracking long into the night with nothing but the moon to guide them. And then, just as suddenly as they’d found it, the trail went dead. Seemingly midstride. There, and then— _nothing_ , gone. Arthur had nearly gone mad with rage, shouting and screaming till Merlin could touch the strain in his voice. Clothes torn from his body, fists bloody from where he’d beat against the bole of a tree, storming off into the woods till the bare branches smothered his cries. And Merlin, dumbstruck with fright, too afraid to follow, watched him go. That night, curled up beneath a blanket on the sodden earth, Merlin shivered from loss of warmth, with dread and woe. But the next morning when he awoke, there was Arthur, horses saddled, waiting to ride for home.

            What a funny thing, hope. How sweetly we cradle it in our hearts, so joyously we triumph its birth. But oh, how bitterly we mourn its death. Sick with grief. To who or what Merlin did not know, but that day as they rode for Camelot, he prayed the next town would hold the answer, because Merlin did not want to imagine what would happen if it did not.

            And here they were. Some dot on the map, some errant inkblot from a cartographer’s quill called Kadith. Nothing more than a huddle of goat herders’ huts on the foot of a nearby mountain where the flocks grazed in summer. But already the autumn snows had fallen, draping a niveous blanket round the mountaintop, and the shepherds had all come calling home, fencing in their livelihood to pass the season with their wives by the fires. One of these men had come as a petitioner to the citadel, had knelt before Uther and begged his royal mercy—his entire herd, slaughtered on his descent by a raving beast. The last of his coin had been spent on the journey to beseech the crown for some measly means to sustain the poor man’s family through the winter months to come. Uther granted him a small purse and his personal condolences. Even before the man had risen to his feet Merlin slipped from the room, rushing to the stables to ready the horses. By the time Merlin had tightened the final strap Arthur burst into the stables, arms laden with what provisions he could acquire quickly without questioning. Merlin wondered briefly what innocuous lie Arthur had fed his father this time. For, of course, Uther knew nothing of Arthur’s affliction or their quest to cure it. Part of him was certain Uther was capable of overlooking his prejudices for the sake of his son. But only part of him.

            The sun had set not long before they crested the hill overlooking Kadith, and as they rode into the dirt square the stars above looked like so much spilled salt, tiny brilliant flecks scattered above their heads. A wooden sign swung on hinges over a doorframe— _Milked Maid_. Inside raucous laughter filtered through the walls, upsetting the goats in their nearby pens. Arthur tethered the horses to a hitching post while Merlin dismounted, then followed his Lord within.

            Little more than a shack with a couple tables and chair, the _Milked Maid_ passed for a tavern of sorts in this part of the kingdom. Squeezed into every corner, weather-faced men, skin a rich, leathery brown, earned from years spent in the sun, huddled together over mugs of ale, laughing as only men far from work could do. The air thrummed with giddy excitement as barmaids slithered in between drinkers, swatting at strayed hands and pinching fingers. Heady scent of drink, and beneath it, the rich smell of stew and fresh dough. Merlin’s stomach grumbled loudly and he smoothed a hand over it placatingly. Arthur strode up to the bar, to the heavyset man wiping down tankers behind it. He set his arms down on the wood, elbow right atop a brown puddle. A foul grimace played across his lips.

            “And what can I do ye for?” The barman asked, turning at Arthur’s polite _ahem_.

            “Two flagons of mead.”

            “And some stew!” Merlin shot out. Both men turned to look at him; Merlin averted his eyes.

            “And some stew. We’ll also be needing a room for the night.”

            “Only got but one spare in the back.” Arthur groaned under his breath. “Bed in there fit ye both just fine.” From their perch on the floor Merlin’s eyes wandered up to the back of Arthur’s head. Even from here he could see the hairs stiffen and stand up on end. Ever since that day in the valley, ever since Arthur had wept while Merlin held him, the two of them had not once touched. Nothing was spoken, no words exchanged, but Arthur kept his distance, never straying closer than an arm’s length. At first Merlin worried he’d overstepped his bounds, had wandered too close and frightened Arthur away. But then he noticed the veins on Arthur’s neck, how they’d distend and pop when he approached, the way he’d clasp and clench his hands as Merlin strolled about his chambers doing chores. That careful step back he’d take whenever Merlin approached. Arthur was afraid, yes, terrified, but not of Merlin—of himself. The barman coughed to break the silence. “Plenty of floor as well, iffen you be needin’ it.” Arthur nodded, laid a few coins down on the counter, took a seat at an empty table.

            Shortly after they sat down a rosy-cheeked girl brought their drinks, winking at Arthur as she set them down. Two steaming bowls of stew, bits of goat and potatoes, little carrot islands, bobbing, came close after. Merlin tore into his meal, ripping chunks of bread from the loaf on the table to dip and sop in the brown, spiced base. Arthur sipped his mead, eyes fixed somewhere beyond Merlin’s head.

            “Stew’s good,” Merlin mumbled through a mouthful of bread, “you should try it.” Arthur blinked, looked down at Merlin. Slid his bowl across the table.

            “You have it. I’m not hungry.” For a moment Merlin hesitated, then dragged the offered stew towards him, dipping his spoon in and bringing a ladle’s worth to his mouth.

            “I’ll sleep on the floor tonight, you don’t have to worry.” A faint smile ghosted over Arthur’s lips, then died just as quickly.

            “No, you take the bed. This,” he paused, searching for the word but finding none, “ _this_ isn’t your fault.”

            “It’s not yours either, Arthur. You didn’t ask to be attacked.” Arthur only shrugged, swilled sip of drink. “I’ll play you for it.” Arthur paused, cocked an eyebrow as he set his mug down.

            “What?”

            “The bed. First one to finish their drink gets the bed, loser takes the floor.” For a moment Arthur looked like he was going to refuse, but then a grin snuck onto his face and he leaned forward, elbows square on the table.

            “Alright, you’re on. On the count of three. One…”

            “Two…”

            “Three!”

            At once both of their mugs were in the air, lifted to their lips as they drank greedily, thin lines of mead rolling down from the corner of their mouths. With big, gaping swallows Merlin downed his drink. Out of the corner of his eyes Merlin saw Arthur tilt his head back, saw the bob of his throat as he began to drain the dregs of his drink. An inch, another, and now Arthur gazed up at the ceiling, all but the last swallow gone. With a grin Merlin’s eyes flashed gold; the handle on Arthur’s flagon snapped, his tankard clattering out of his hand as the remains of his mead splashed onto his face, soaking the collar of his tunic. Rising to his feet Merlin finished the last of his drink, slamming it down onto the table with a triumphant _whoop_. Two men at a nearby table hollered and applauded. With an exaggerated bow Merlin took his seat.

            Across from him Arthur wiped at his face with the hem of his tunic, and despite his sodden hair his mood had decidedly lifted. They ordered another round and spent the next hour talking. Not about the curse, about their plans and strategy. Just talking. About Camelot and the new dress Morgana bought which flattered everything on her but her hips. Of Uther and the dignitaries that were to visit in a month’s time. How Leon was rumored to be courting a girl in the lower town, or so says Gwen. Arthur asked about Ealdor, if Merlin had heard from his mother recently. As the crowd swelled and the dim grew louder they leaned in close across the table so as not to have to shout. Above the beer stains their faces hovered inches apart, two boys, two friends, talking. Just talking.

            They were laughing over some joke Arthur had told, something about a knight’s lance and an unfortunate jousting accident, when the door to the inn burst open and an older woman walked in. A hush fell as she walked to the bar, ordered a drink, stood standing as she nursed it. Not a word was spoken till she left some minutes later, tugging her black shawl tight around her shoulder. As soon as the door had swung shut once more whispers swelled to the surface, growing louder, mixing and mingling with each other as everyone spoke at once.

            “Poor soul…”

            “Damndest thing, what happened.”

            “A widow, at her age—”

            “Said he went mad…”

            “In the forest, was it?”

            “Neigh, on the mountaintop. Torn to pieces—”

            “By the beast?”

            “The same one that got Jorman’s goats!”

            “By himself! Say he clawed his own eyes out.”

            “His eyes?”

            “I heard he ripped his cheeks off and ate them.”

            “How awful…”

            “What caused it?”

            “Drink!”

            “No, twas the devil—”

            “Aye, the devil in the form of that beast.”

            “Was that bite he got that did it.”

            “The one that went sour?”

            “The very same. Bit one day—”

            “—mad the next.”

            “Poor soul…”

            The whole time Merlin listened, swiveling in his seat to follow the voices volleying around him. Arthur stayed hunched over his drink, head low, eyes shut tight. When the murmurs died away, turning back to other gossip, he rose to his feet, pushing his unfinished drink away.

            “I’m going to turn in.”

            “I’ll come with you.”

            After they gathered their bags from the horses the barman showed them the tiny room tucked away in a corner of the inn, through the door behind the bar, hidden amidst casks of ale. Spartan, stripped down to the bare essentials, little more than four walls, warped floorboards, and a bed. From experience Merlin figured the mattress would be more lump than otherwise, infested with mites. The sheets, colored gray by a thick coating of dust, hadn’t seen washing on this side of half a year. A sharp hiss mixed with the pungent smell of sulfur as the barman lit the lone candle, little more than a waxen stump on the bedside table, bidding them a goodnight’s rest as he departed, door clicking shut behind him.

            Neither Merlin nor Arthur moved, both stood still in the middle of the room. Merlin fiddled with the hem of his tunic, worrying at an errant thread. Arthur flexed his fingers, cleared his throat, but didn’t speak. At last Arthur shrugged his pack from his shoulders, pulling out a roughhewn blanket, flicking it out as he draped it over a patch of floor.

            “You can have the bed if you want,” Merlin, who still hadn’t moved, spoke into the puff of his kerchief, chin tucked up against his chest. Arthur, from where he knelt on the floorboards smoothing out his bedding, looked up.

            “No, you take it. You won, fair and square.” Rose-tinted, Merlin rubbed at his cheeks to hide his blush.

            “We could always…” Merlin rolled his wrist, gestured vaguely towards the bed, let his offer hang suspended in the air. Live or die. Arthur’s choice.

            “I…I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Unable to look at him, Arthur kept his face hidden behind his hair, locked his eyes on a knot of wood by his knee.

            “Arthur...” Merlin crept towards him, floorboard creaking under his weight as it shifted. Like a bird, gentle, Merlin laid a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. Felt the muscles tense, felt the urge to shy away. But he stayed, took a breath, gradually relaxed. “It’ll be fine. I trust you.” Arthur  turned up his face, too blue eyes holding Merlin’s own. Weak smile growing, dying on pale pink lips. Strong fingers gripped Merlin’s hand, gave a squeeze. Arthur nodded, rose to his sheet and began undressing for bed. Merlin followed suit, back turned, less for modesty and more to hide the concern etching itself across his face. _Of course he trusted Arthur, but did Arthur trust himself?_

            Though his predictions were correct Merlin took no joy in the fact. Long minutes stretched past as he tossed and turned on his half of the bed, fist beating down lumps, head hard against the thinness of the lone pillow they shared. Arthur, for his part, barely moved as he slid beneath the covers, as if the sheet were a frozen lake, as if his whole body protested every action.

            “Just go to sleep, Merlin.” Arthur muttered into his arms, curled up against his face. Merlin fell still with a loud _humph_ and one last flounce. A puff of breath and the room went black.

            In the darkness Merlin became hyperaware of his body. How his breath sounded thunderous in the quiet, despite the muffled revelry that streamed in through their walls. Just a few feet, some thin slats of wood separated them from the men and women beyond, full of drink and mirth, tankers clinking, as feet baltered to and fro about the room. But here, in the hush of their room, every creak and groan rattled the teeth in Merlin’s mouth, rang in his ears. Supine, the knobs of Merlin’s spine graced against the curve of Arthur’s back, that broad sheet of muscle. Afraid to move he sipped in tiny gulps of air, careful to keep his chest from heaving as his heart rabbited within its cage. Little by little, as Arthur snored gently, Merlin relaxed, unclenched the tendons in his arms and legs, loosened the hold on his breath. Felt himself grow lighter as the fatigue of riding all day, the wearisome weight of their search, lifted from him, plucked aloft by some celestial hand. A final sigh through parted lips and he was fast asleep.

 

 

            In his dreams he heard the bed creaking. Ancient wood, hastily slotted together, rocking against its confines, knocking against the wall with a rhythmic _bump bump bump_. Merlin furrowed his head beneath the pillow, nuzzled his face into the musk of the mattress, tried to ignore the clamor and fall back asleep. Then, eyes blinking open, Merlin realized he had been, in fact, awoken by the sound, not imagined, but oh so real. When he attempted to roll over he found a brawny arm wrapped around his middle, pinning his back against Arthur’s chest. Fingers curled tight around Merlin’s arm. Painfully tight.

            “Arthur, Arthur wake up.” Hot breath against Merlin’s ear, the heated air sending shiver to crawl over his neck, hair on end, goose-fleshed. A low rumble in Arthur’s throat as he flicked his tongue over the curve of Merlin’s lobe. “Arthur, this isn’t funn— _ah_!” Arthur nipped at a dangling bit of flesh, teeth sharp as they bit down. Merlin’s words lost in a gasp. Slick muscle of tongue made its way down Merlin’s throat, full lips tasting the pulse racing beneath flushed skin. Merlin pushed at Arthur’s arm, but his grip, vice-like, wouldn’t give. “Arthur, st— _ah_ —Arthur, stop it!” Merlin shouted as he dug his nails hard into the flesh of Arthur’s arm. In response Arthur let loose a growl, then bit into the juncture between neck and shoulder. Merlin felt the teeth sink deep and he cried out.

            Then Arthur began to move against him, hips rocking slowly at first, then faster, pelvis canting against Merlin’s backside. Hot in the face, Merlin became acutely aware of the hardness gliding along the cleft of his ass as Arthur rutted against him. Mortified, Merlin hid his face in the pillow, brought a downy lump between his teeth, gnawed on it. Arthur worked himself into a frenzy, walls clattering and clacking with the force of his movements. His hand snaked its way down, cupped Merlin’s crotch, squeezed.

            Like a lightning bolt Merlin shot from bed, scrambling out of Arthur’s grasp, kicking the covers back, but his foot tangled and he spilt out onto the floor, elbow connecting hard. He rolled over, cradling his arm against his chest as he tried to sit up. But then a great weight fell upon him, pushing him back down. Strong hands gripped his wrists, hoisted his arms above his head. Arthur’s face hovered inches above Merlin’s, eyes glazed over. Grinning snarl spread across his lips. Arthur lowered down, down.

            With one swift thrust Merlin brought his knee up, slamming it into Arthur’s groin. As the hard circle of bone connected Merlin felt the soft bundle of flesh move and give. Arthur made a noise as if he’d be sick, rolling off of Merlin to curl into a ball, hands tucked over his abused flesh. Pressing his forehead into the grain of the wooden floorboard, Arthur let out a long, sonorous groan.

            “What the… _fuck_ is wrong with you?” Arthur spat out between gritting teeth. Though the room was still dark, though he was certain Arthur couldn’t see him, all the same Merlin crossed his legs as he sat up, covering his lap with his hands as he scooted back to lean against a wall.

            “Me? What the fuck is wrong with me? You were the one…you were…”

            “What?” Arthur shouted to the floor as he rose haltingly to his knees, though his torso remained bent over as his thighs spasmed, “what was I…doing…” Arthur turned his head, tried to peer through the darkness where Merlin sat away from him. “Did…oh God, did I…try and hurt you again?” Voice not even a whisper. Like a scared little boy who’s just been told his mother is sick. So much worry it can’t be carried so it just spills out.

            “No, no! I just…I had a dream and…” Even Merlin would call the lie unconvincing, so he eventually stopped, left the sentence unfinished, dangling in the air between them. Like a penitent, Arthur dragged himself, bent double, knees scraping against the floor, till he knelt over the blanket he’d laid out earlier. “Arthur, it’s fine, really, I promise it’s fine…” With a bodily _thump_ Arthur slumped down atop it, shaky hand drawing it half across his hunched form.

            All night Merlin watched Arthur. Even when his back grew stiff against the wall he refused to move, refused to take his eyes off him. Inside the room Arthur’s soft sobs, deafening. Outside the wind, wailing.

            Within the hearts of two men, agonized by the cruel iniquity of life—

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry._

 

 

            Morning found Merlin cold and stiff, a chill having permeated their small room sometime in the gray hours of dawn. Cricks ran up and down the length of Merlin’s neck, knotting out across his shoulders, muscles calcified in the night. Bleary vision gave way to clarity as he rubbed at his eyes, working the heel of his palm into the tender sockets. Gentle scraping against wood floors, the shuffle of feet, snap of a folded blanket. Arthur, so it seemed, had woken early, even earlier than the cocks now crowing in the distance. Their possessions, tucked away in neat piles, cinched shut in knapsacks. Arthur wouldn’t catch Merlin’s eyes, almost deliberately.

            Audible pops accompanied Merlin’s feline stretch, fingers inching towards the ceiling as he twirled his wrists, arching his back till every knuckle on his spine sagged and sighed in relief. He made his way to the tiny bed, hands flittered over the tasks set before him. Once, their fingers brushed, and Arthur recoiled as if burnt. Merlin finished packing alone, Arthur gone to settle up with the barman. How lonely a room could feel with little more than the clap of a shut door.

            The morning hour far too early for any save the most hardened of lushes, Merlin walked out into an empty bar. With a friendly nod the man behind the counter indicated the door before turning to polish a stained mug with an equally filthy rag.

            Outside the day, though young, already proved bitter. Tumescent clouds hung low in the sky, bellies full to bursting, waiting for an opportune moment to rip asunder and spill forth onto the earth. Already the flesh of Merlin’s arms goose-fleshed, despite the jacket he tugged snugly against his trembling form. Though the horses, saddled and nickering at their posts, seemed ready to depart, Arthur stood beside them, worrying the toe of his boot into the hard ground, miniscule mountain of dust coloring the dulled leather a rusty red.

            “Where to, Sire?” Merlin asked, shouldering the bags from one side to the other, their weight an unpleasant tug against his upper back. Merlin knew as well as Arthur their trail lay beyond the reaches of town—stretching before him Merlin saw a day spent crawling through brush, knees bloodied as they scrambled over crags and rocks, nose buried in the earth, searching for tracks. But Arthur turned on his heel, stalked past the splay of houses, dotted here and there, sparse, hardy weeds cropped up between their derelict sidings. “Arthur? Where are we going?” Arthur didn’t turn, acted as if he hadn’t even heard Merlin, shoulder set tight, face forward, step resolute.

            When he stopped they stood before a worn façade of a building. Low, single story, thin patches of thatch visible from the street. A lone window, hung with black, the curtain pulled shut. Gaps in the wood peppered the front and sides, the door warped so a thin whistle of wind rose as they stood there, waiting, for what Merlin hadn’t the faintest. Such a sad place, aged and crumbling, the beams themselves old and tired. Winter would be hard for whoever lived here, cold and harsh. Merlin shivered at the thought. At last Arthur raised a fist, knocked once, twice, let his arm drop by his side. Inside, a shuffle of thin feet made their way to the door, which opened a crack to reveal a face as weathered as the house it hid inside. Merlin recognized it as the woman from the inn last night.

_The widow_.

            “Please,” Arthur said, palming the door, pressing it open ever so slightly, “we need to speak to you.”

            The woman didn’t welcome them in, but nor did she protest as Arthur strolled forward. Stepping aside to accommodate the Prince, the woman eyed Merlin as he hesitated. With a quick, halted step Merlin hurried in after. Inside the single room seemed, if at all possible, even more downtrodden than the exterior. A single candle burned low on a table whose uneven legs gave it a perilous slant, thin line of wax making its slow, inevitable march to the precipice’s edge. A single bed, the sheets tangled in a mess atop the compact mattress, lay tucked away in a corner. Here, a discarded tunic, there, dulled tools, beside them dishes needing washing, a coat wanting mending. The sad disarray of a lived life now given up.

            She hadn’t moved from the doorway, though she’d shut away the chill wind blowing outside. Arthur turned, gripped his hips and parted his legs in that authoritative manner Princes possess, the type they spent hours in front of the mirror perfecting till it comes, effortless and natural as a cloak about the shoulders.

            “I understand that you have recently lost your husband.” Brutal, right to the point. Merlin flinched at Arthur’s forward tact. “Please accept my humblest regrets and condolences. I cannot imagine the pain this loss has brought you.” But ah, such poise. The woman let out a slow, quivery breath as her shoulders drooped and she edged away from the door. She dropped down onto one of two chairs by the table, set the bones of her elbows onto the gnarled grain.

            “Thank you. Do not think me rude for asking, but why do you care?” Defiance in her eyes, the kind only the old have the courage to muster. Arthur, for his part, did not falter or turn away. Barely even blinked.

            “I am the Crown Prince of Camelot, and I believe that the creature that killed your husband still poses a threat to the kingdom. It is my solemn duty to protect this realm and its people.” The woman gave forth a humorless chuckle at Arthur’s vow.

            “Aye, and you’re to put it in the ground, is that it? Well Godspeed to you then.” Arthur pushed forward, coming to lean his weight against the table, peering down at the thinning mass of silver atop the woman’s wrinkled head.

            “Please, any information you can provide—”

            “Information? Do you think if I knew where this beast was that I wouldn’t have gone after it myself?” Merlin, from where he huddled against the far wall, eyed a hatchet hanging by the hearth. For her advanced age and frailty, Merlin could not doubt the conviction in her voice.

            “We’re just asking for any clue you can give us. Where was your husband’s body found?” The widow blanched at the question, ran a tongue over her pale lips and swallowed before answering.

            “On the north face of the mountain, half a day’s trek up. There’s a field there where we’d pasture the goats. Most had come down with the season’s early turn, but Robert hung on. Always was slow on the uptake.” For a beat she said nothing, simply watched a glob of wax drip down the candle’s length. When she spoke again her voice was barely above a whisper. “When he didn’t come home I asked a friend to look for him. All he found was his arm.” Arthur lifted a hand, hovered it over the old woman’s, hesitating. Finally, he set it back down on the table and cleared his throat.

            “I’ve heard rumors…rumors that perhaps your husband was not in pull possession of his…faculties when he died.” That wet glimmer in her eyes as she looked up strung a pang in Merlin’s heart. He would have comforted her had he been able to swallow the lump in his throat.

            “Poor Sally, her husband’s gone mad,” she whispered to herself, loose skin of her neck tucked against her chest with her chin. “Poor old Sally, husband gone off drunk onto the mountain one night, got himself bit. Poor Sally, up all night sick with worry, only for Robert to come stumbling back in the morning.” Wind wiggled in through one of the many holes in the house, made the candle flame dance and flutter, casting long shadows on Sally’s face. “Aye, my husband was mad alright. Mad when he stumbled upon the beast and mad when he went off to face it again.”

            “Again? Are you telling me your husband tried—”

            “To kill it. Fever, he told me, burning him from the inside. Voices in his head not his own. Said he had urges, unnatural urges that were getting harder and harder to resist. Said the only way he could stop it was by killing the beast. So he took a cooking knife and went off. And I never saw him again.”

            Silence hung heavy between them. Arthur righted, and when Sally looked as if she would speak no more, gestured to Merlin. But just as he swung the door open, as Arthur was stepping over the threshold, Sally lifted her head.

            “Tell me, your Highness, are you a knight?”

            “I am, milady.”

            “And as a knight, you must keep any vow you make, is that correct?”

            “If I swear it on my honor, yes, I am bound to my word.”

            “Then swear to me, Crown Prince of Camelot. Swear to me that you shall find the beast that killed my Robert, that you shall run it through like the mad dog it is, that you shall make the mountain run red with its blood.”

            Merlin saw the white of Arthur’s knuckles, tight on the hilt of his sword.

            “I swear to you, on my honor as a knight of Camelot, that I shall slay this beast. Or die trying.”

 

 

            Shadows lay thick as snow on the mountain’s north side. Slowly rising in the east the sun did nothing to warm Merlin’s bones as he rode beside Arthur. He’d spoken little since leaving the widow’s house, only straddled his horse and turned towards the great abundance looming over them, waiting expectantly for Merlin to fall into step. Now, at the base, with the towering eminence before them, Merlin’s stomach tightened and quivered, like he’d just swallowed a bucket of ice water. Not sick, just cold.

            The ascent, though steep, didn’t prove overly sharp. But still, with every trickle of stone dislodged by their horses’ hooves, Merlin would crane his neck around to watch the town shrink behind them, till, hours later, with the sun high in the sky, the thatched roofs looked little more than pale patches of dirt against a brown canvas of earth.

            “Just ahead,” Arthur said, dismounting and taking his horse’s reigns in his hand, “the clearing.”

            Sure enough the mountainside leveled out into a gentle steppe, hardly more than a ridge sliced into the rock face. What in spring would have been a lush field, verdant despite its size, now, within the icy grips of autumn, lay barren and dead, dried remnants of life lifted away on a passing breeze. Merlin, on foot as well, followed Arthur as he approached the pasture. On the air a pungent odor was carried to his nostrils. With a shudder he plugged his nose and turned away.

            “Blood,” Arthur stated as he squatted low on his haunches. Between thumb and forefinger he pinched a rust-colored blade of grass, crushing it before flinging it away.

            From a distance what had appeared to be patches of dirt, chewed bare by esurient goats, up close proved to be swaths of dried blood. Large puddles of it, caked into the earth, till what patches remained seemed to be a sea of autumn sprouting from the earth. The stench of it clung heavy about them, rich and coppery on Merlin’s tongue. He felt like gagging.

            Already Arthur was stalking the perimeter, face close to the ground, eyes sweeping this way and that, keen for even the barest hint of tracks. Merlin, for his part, kicked at the dirt, sending tiny clumps flying about. Never before had his ineptitude at all things venery bothered him. In a small town such as Ealdor one lived beside death, going so far as to welcome it inside and prepare a place at supper. Livestock, loved and tended to all summer, were slaughtered come winter to provide for hungry mouths. An accident in the field, some nick or cut badly infected, could slice a man’s life in half as easily as scythe through a stalk of wheat. Men and women grew old, enfeebled, and all it took was one spill and that was that. Still, even if he were no stranger to Death, Merlin never felt the desire to hunt. To kill an animal for food was understandable, necessary even, but for sport? Merlin had ever found cruelty amusing. But now, standing by the wayside as Arthur worked himself into a stupor, peering at every tuft of grass and twig till his vision blurred and his eyes ached from strain, Merlin could not help but sense the gravity of his uselessness. To do nothing but watch in desperation made Merlin feel a child.

            Just then, as Merlin vented his frustration with a swift kick, his toe connected with something hard, which he sent clattering out onto the ground before him. Bending down, the long femur shone in the noonday sun. Oh, how desperately Merlin wanted to believe it came from a goat. But the thickness of it, its girth and length, belied nothing but humanity. And the long gashes cut into the side of it, the pockmarked depression, could be little else but teeth, the only remaining evidence of the beast’s avarice.

            “Arthur!” Merlin called, “Arthur, come quick!” Merlin, tugging down his sleeves so as to not touch the bone with his bare hands, held it out for Arthur to examine. With a quick sweep of his eyes Arthur took in the grisly affair, asking Merlin where he had found it, going to inspect the spot Merlin to which pointed. When at last he righted, grin plastered wide across his face, he knocked the bone from Merlin’s hands, pulling him into a quick embrace.

            “Brilliant, Merlin, you’re simply brilliant!” Arthur whooped with joy as he released Merlin, strong pats to his back nearly sending him toppling over. “Do you know what this means?” Arthur pressed onward when Merlin only shrugged. “This means it’s come back! The old woman—”

            “Sally.”

            “—said they only found her husband’s—”

            “Robert.”

            “—head. But here’s his femur. So that means…” Arthur twirled his hand, drawing out an answer from an oblivious Merlin.

            “…they’re poor searchers?”

            “It means the beast must have a den near here!” Arthur turned triumphantly, scanning the slope rising before them. “It’s close, Merlin. We’re so close.”

            Within the hour they’d descended down the mountainside to tether their horses to a spindly tree, the ascent too precarious to risk on horseback. Despite the sun beating down on the back of his neck, Merlin grew colder with every step, the wind biting at every scrap of exposed skin, till the tips of his fingers turned a blistered and numb red. Arthur, despite the chill, which Merlin knew he felt, wouldn’t hear of slowing down, pressing ever onwards and upwards. The gentle ache, which turned into a slow burn, erupted into great flames as the tendons in Merlin’s legs screamed out against their continued, relentless climb. Lunch came and went without them stopping, the tight ball of hunger in Merlin’s stomach gradually fading into that peculiar apathy of the starved. As the hours trickled past the sun rose and sunk in the sky, till at last it hung on the horizon, melting into oranges, reds, and yellows. Still, Arthur pressed forward.

            “Arthur,” Merlin whined from where he’d fallen a few feet behind.

            “What is it, Merlin?” Arthur asked, never stopping.

            “Arthur, _please_.” Arthur paused and turned to look at Merlin who, doubled over, hands on his knees, puffed out exhausted breaths. “Can’t we rest, just for a second?” There, for a brief moment, Merlin was sure Arthur would refuse and soldier on, but instead he nodded, once, slow and controlled. From his shoulder he let slip the travel pack, light, with only a handful of foodstuffs inside, most of their supplies having been left with the horses down the mountain. With a rattle of mail and an exasperated sigh he set himself down on an outcrop of stone, resting his elbows on his knees.

            Merlin collapsed to his knees, joyous as the weight shifted to the ground and off of his overworked legs. Wrapping his arms tight round his sides he massaged the stiches interlaced about his ribs, all the while drawing in large, gasping breaths.

            “You know, if you actually _tried_ training with the knights sometime you’d be in better shape.”

            “Oh, I’m sorry, but being beaten with dull swords and lugging around all your armor doesn’t do much in the way of building stamina,” Merlin spat out between mouthfuls of air.

            “Don’t be such a girl, Merlin,” Arthur muttered, turning to gaze back up the mountain, eyes scanning for…something, _anything_.

            Merlin’s stomach roared in the stillness, loud even over the drone of the buffeting wind. Arthur peered back at him, sheepish guilt crowded about his brow. Fishing around in his pack he found a hardy chunk of bread, which he tossed to Merlin, hitting him in the chest. Eager fingers scrambled to catch the tumbling loaf, and once they had it Merlin stuffed the whole thing into his mouth till his cheeks grew distended and Arthur half-worried he’d choke.

            “It will be dark soon,” Arthur murmured, more to himself, while Merlin scarfed down the last bits of bread, licking crumbs from his palms, “perhaps we should set up camp here for the night.”

            Never in his life had Merlin heard more glorious words. In short order they’d managed to clear a patch of earth to sit on, one threadbare blanket shared between them. By the time Merlin had come back from gathering kindling, arms laden with what thin twigs and dry brush he could find at this elevation, Arthur had laid out their meager rations; dry cheese and hard, oat bread. When at last Merlin sparked the fire they set upon their evening meal with renewed famine, hunger spicing the otherwise bland offerings. The sun had long since set, and as they huddled against the night’s chill long shadows pranced about them, aging them in the dim, flickering light.

            Before him, where Arthur had sat, Merlin now saw the face of an aged king. Deep ridges of doubt and worry dug into his brow, wrinkles etched across a permanent scowl. Dulled eyes, almost black from where they sat hidden in deep crevices. Hair gone white till it shone in the firelight.

            And Merlin? What did Arthur see when he peered across the flames as they leapt into the air between them? What stories clung to his face, hopes and fears made plain? Why, even now, could Arthur not bare to meet his eye? When the Prince spoke he addressed the flames, watching the wood smolder and glow with intensity.

            “What we’re trying to do…if… _when_ we find the beast, it could be dangerous. You don’t—”

            “I’m coming with you, Arthur.” Merlin’s tone brooked no argument. A pause, the stillness of the air broken only by the cackles and pops from the flames.

            “If we don’t succeed, if we’re not able to…to kill the beast…Merlin, I want you to promise me something.” Merlin looked up, stared at the top of Arthur’s head as he refused to lift his face. “I want you to promise me that if we can’t defeat the beast, if I’m doomed to become—. Just promise me you won’t let it get to that.”

            Merlin, at first, didn’t understand. Then slowly, like waking from a dream, reality clarified and became sharp as morning sunlight, crashing down around him. The broken whisper of Arthur’s voice, the defeated tilt of his head. The dagger he’d made sure Merlin brought with him, buried still in the recesses of Merlin’s pack.

            “Arthur—”

            “Please, Merlin, just promise me.”

            “Arthur, I…I can’t! You can’t ask me to…to—” Arthur rose to his feet, shadow long and menacing behind him. Face lost to darkness.

            “You don’t understand!” Arthur shouted, hands thrown into the air. “To have this—this _thing_ inside you that you can’t control! To be afraid every day, that someone will find out, that you’ll hurt yourself, that you’ll hurt someone _else_.” Arthur stalked about their campsite, words rushing from his mouth, tumbling forth like a cascade, all in one breath. “To not know what you are anymore…to be unable to look inside yourself for fear of what you’ll see…Merlin, I…I can’t live like this.” Arthur knelt beside Merlin, gripped his shoulder, made the younger man look at him. Lost in those eyes. “Please, Merlin. Not as your Prince, not as my servant. I’m asking you as my friend. Please. Promise me.”

            But Merlin couldn’t. And not just because of destiny and duty and all those other words men and dragons liked to throw around as if they were important and justified all the terrible things that happened. No, Merlin couldn’t promise Arthur because now, with Arthur so close to him, touching him, tender and real and _him_ for the first time in forever, looking into those eyes, his heart unfurled like a flower once thought lost to the frost but somehow miraculously still alive. Pulse racing, a blush rose unbidden to Merlin’s cheeks as he wondered how he had never seen it before, how he’d been so foolish. How, though, how could he explain to Arthur that now, now when Merlin finally _understood_ , that it would be impossible, more impossible than it had ever been before, to dream of giving him up?

            Merlin never had the chance. For just then, face so close Merlin felt the warmth of Arthur’s breath, a howl pierced the night air, long and sharp as any blade’s edge. Before Merlin could even process the sound Arthur was on his feet, disappearing from the fire’s light in crazed pursuit. Merlin scrambled up, stumbling over a furl of blanket as he snatched at a burning branch from the fire, legs pumping as he chased after him, bobbing circle of illuminating fluttering in the wind.

            “Arthur!” Merlin cried at the rapidly retreating form. “Arthur, stop! Please!”

            Before them loomed the mouth of a cave, a gaping maw in the side of the mountain. Without a second thought Arthur plunged forward into the heart of darkness. Merlin followed close behind. Their bodies collided just within the cave’s entrance, Merlin slamming into Arthur’s back as the Prince stood still as stone, eyes, unseeing, peering ahead.

            “Arthur—”

            “ _Shh_.” Arthur shushed, finger pressed against his lips. He took the torch from Merlin, drawing his sword. The song of metal sliding against metal filled the cave, a cathedral at mass. Beneath, the low rumbling of a growl as if clawed its way out of the beast’s throat. The barest twitch of Arthur’s face, the gentlest turn of his head, the flick of his eyes to Merlin’s. “Whatever happens, stay behind me.”

            That soft crunch underfoot as they crept forward. The slow approach of death. Heavy breathing, so loud, so close you forget whose mouth it came from. They heard it before they see it, that rumbling growl so near, no longer some distant echoing from deep within the cave, but _there_ , right there. A glint of torchlight on barred, yellow teeth. Fur, dark as midnight, matted with blood and dirt. Pendulous teats, so low they almost scraped the floor, the tips wet, dripping onto the ground. Paws as large as a man’s face, stalking nearer, nearer, the nails ragged and sharp. The outline of bone along its strong limbs, the ridge of ribs evident beneath its thin pelt. Pink of its tongue unsettling.

            And the eyes…its eyes…

            Everything happened so fast. Arthur dropped the torch, fisting the hilt of his sword with both hands, screaming, swinging it up as he stormed towards the beast. No tension built, no electric charge to crackle—there simply wasn’t time. Just a blur of motion, that ghostly glint of silver mail swaying with Arthur’s hurried movements, the swift swing of his arms. The beast hedged closer, quicker than something that size should be able to move, darting back each time Arthur’s blade swept out to taste its foul flesh. That howl, filling the cave, filling Merlin’s head, till his ears swam, likely to burst and bleed, every time Arthur’s sword made its mark. Thick blood, dark as deep water, wetting its fur, staining the cave floor. Desperate it lunged forward, bit at the blade, caught it in its mouth. Pink tongue colored red as it held the metal between putrid fangs. With a sharp turn of its head the beast wrenched the sword from Arthur’s grasp. Merlin saw Arthur’s wrist twist painfully, palm rotated nearly 360 degrees. His cry drowned out by the clatter of steel as it dropped from the creature’s mouth.

            With a leap, muscles of its hindquarters coiled and tense like a horse, the beast had Arthur on his back. Gloved hands tangled in the matted clumps of fur at its neck, holding it back with all the strength his arms could manage. Jaws snapping, the clacking of its teeth thunderous, inches from the pallor of Arthur’s face. Merlin, reeling, searched for a weapon—the sword, _too far_ , trapped on the other side of the struggling, murderous mass—when finally he remembered the torch, mercifully still burning, the heft of the branch painfully small, barely thick as his arm, but it was _something_ at least.

            A hollow knocking ran up Merlin’s arms as he brought the torch down on its skull, again and again, praying the fire to catch, to set the beast alight. Arthur laid forgotten as it turned with a snarl, advancing swiftly on Merlin, who recoiled in stumbling, terrified retreat. Did it remember Merlin, remember the flames?

            Arthur shouted something, Merlin’s name perhaps, but suddenly the world titled, ceiling now in front of his eyes, breath knocked from his lungs, a great weight crushing his chest, making it difficult to draw in air. His head knocked painfully against the floor and his movements were slow as he pushed his hand up, into the beast’s face, trying desperately to keep it away. But his arms were weak, his hand sought purchase on the odd angles of its snout and suddenly, for a bare second, a wetness on his finger, which had slipped into the beast’s mouth.

            The sound, as the beast’s jaws snapped shut, slicing Merlin’s finger off clean at the knuckle, reminded him of the crunch of carrots being fed to horses. Someone was screaming, their voice raw and hoarse; Merlin had never heard such anguish and it frightened him. Then he felt something warm and wet running down his arm, soaking the sleeve of his tunic. _Blood_. And then Merlin realized he was the one screaming. Screaming, kicking, flailing at the beast, trying to beat it back, but it’s snapping jaws, its teeth stained crimson with Merlin’s blood, kept inching closer to his face, breath heady and foul.

            Just when Merlin thought it was over, that this was the end, suddenly the beast lifted off of his body, hovering above him, held by some outside force. At first, dread coursing through his veins, Merlin worried he’d done it, that his magic had risen unbidden to the surface and propelled the beast away from him. But as it began to struggle and snap, twisting its head around, Merlin heard Arthur grunt beneath the weight of it, fighting hard to hold it away from his body, safe from the bite of its muscled jaw.

            “Merlin, go! Get out of here, go!” Arthur shouted, arms quaking with the strain of grappling the creature, which wormed and snaked its body around, mouth mad with froth. Rolling over, Merlin rose to his knees, but when he tried to stand the world went dim and his head swam. Suddenly he was kneeling on the floor, forehead pressed to the cool ground. “Merlin, run!”

            But Arthur, brave Arthur, paid too much attention to Merlin, did not, could not have noticed the stray bone, gnawed and glistening with saliva, upon which he stepped in his retreat, struggling against the enormity of the creature’s strength. In one heap, all limbs and metal and fur they came tumbling down, Arthur flat on his back, the beast scrambling on top of him. Merlin saw it just as it did, that exposed flash of Arthur’s neck, milky in the dimness, so close to jagged, ravenous fangs. What other choice did Merlin have?

            Arcane syllables and a flash of gold catapulted the beast into the air. In the gap where his ring finger should have been Merlin watched it flail, limbs kicking, mouth snapping at empty air. A sharp flick of his wrist and the magic hurled the beast up, its body smacking against the ceiling. Merlin titled his head towards the _snap_ of its splintered spine. Then, just as easily as it was called, Merlin released the power, let it recoil back inside him. Lifeless, the beast tumbled down in a heap. A leg twitched once, then lay still.

            Merlin watched the beast die. Arthur watched Merlin watching.

            How could he not have seen? Not just now, but always? Suddenly every battle, every monster, every glancing brush of death, flashed before Arthur’s eyes, duplicitous, mocking his blinding ignorance. Merlin, _his_ Merlin, the boy slouched upon the ground before him, cradling his bloodied hand against his chest—a sorcerer? The deception made Arthur’s blood run cold, the foul taste of mendacity itched at the back of his throat. After so long, after so much together, the lie stung worse than any wound. Bodies may heal with time, but what of hearts?

            When Merlin’s eyes flicked to Arthur’s, the blue of them, the steady beat of his gaze, numbed his bones. Had he been hurt? Their bags were back at camp, along with what little medical supplies they’d brought with them. Merlin couldn’t ignore his own injuries either; he’d been too afraid to look at the nub where his finger had once been, but years with Gaius provided sufficient imagery. Only when Arthur continued to stare, unblinking, did Merlin realize the gravity of what had passed between them, of what he had revealed. Manacles rattled in his mind, the cold confines of a dungeon cell melted before the roar of a flaming pyre. _Would he?_ _Could he_? But Merlin hadn’t the time to ask because at that moment a chorus of whimpers rose from the back of the cave.

            For a heartbeat Merlin held Arthur’s gave before they both turned their heads towards the multitude of high-pitched whines emanating from the darkness. Slowly they both climbed to their feet, Arthur scooping up his sword and torch as Merlin toed the line behind him. Advancing by slow, calculated steps they inched forward, the mewling louder with their approach. When they reached the cave’s end Merlin could not contain the breath that fled the tight restriction of his heart.

            Huddled together for warmth sat six pups, gray eyes unseeing as they squirmed together, mouths open in long, petulant howls. They could not have been whelped more than two weeks prior. As he took in the plumpness of their fur Merlin remembered the emaciated ribs of their mother. How long before they starved to death without her milk?

            Arthur sheathed his sword and drew out the dirk on his right hip, stepping towards the pups. Merlin foresaw his intention and grabbed his arm, pulling him back.

            “What are you doing?”

            “What does it look like?” Arthur asked, jerking his arm free of Merlin’s touch. Brow quirked in incomprehension, like Merlin had just spoken a foreign tongue Arthur couldn’t understand. “I’m ending this.”

            “Arthur, you…you can’t! They’re just pups!”

            “For now, but what about when they grow up, hmm? What then? What will you do when they start killing people,” Arthur gestured back towards the cave entrance, “just like it did? What then, Merlin?” Arthur held Merlin’s gaze for a second, waiting for him to say something, but when Merlin’s lips stayed shut in a tight, thin line he turned and stalked towards the mewling pups.

            Merlin knew he should have stayed with him, should have shouldered this burden between them. He couldn’t have helped, couldn’t have brought himself to do it, but at least he could have made sure Arthur didn’t have to be alone. Instead Merlin waited outside the cave, stared up at the sliver of moon, pale against the star studded velvet of the night sky. Whatever sounds he made the wind carried far, far away.

 

 

            They’d reach Camelot by midday tomorrow. Night had fallen and they’d stopped to make camp by a brook, nestled beneath a copse of trees. As Merlin knelt by the stream, fingers cold as he dipped the water skins beneath the chilled surface, he felt the strain of tremors running across his lower back. In his squat his hips quivered and ached. Since leaving the mountain Arthur had barely stopped to eat and rest, eschewing towns—with their inns and hot meals and soft beds—for greater speed, at times unsaddling and walking the horses with nothing but the moon to guide them. He said they’d been gone from Camelot long enough as it were, that people, namely the King, would start to worry if they dallied. He said nothing more on the matter and Merlin didn’t press the issue.

            With the water skins filled, Merlin picked at the bandages wrapped around his hand. Slowly he peeled back the cottony gauze, cracking his knuckles, wiggling the nub between his middle and pinky finger. Once they’d reached the horses Merlin had treated the wound, cleaning it, helping it along with magic, but though great they were, his powers could not regrow a finger. Best thing he could do for himself now was to keep it clean and wrapped to stave off infection or gangrene. Arthur reminded him of this every day, adding it to a list of chores to be ticked off— _set up camp, fill the water skins, boil the stew, check your hand_. But that was all Arthur said to him.

            On their way back down the mountain Merlin had tried to talk to him, to explain what he had seen, to tell him why he’d kept this from him for so long. If only he could find the words to make Arthur understand! But his Prince had silenced him with a look. Sleepless nights Merlin spent beside him, cold despite their fire’s warmth. Every day brought them closer to Camelot, closer to Merlin’s doom and destruction. Arthur would never harm him, Merlin knew that, but Uther? Uther would see him burn for the crime of his birth. And Merlin could not expect Arthur to keep his secret from his father. Love betrays everyone, even those we hold dearest.

            So Merlin planned his escape, kept his bag, packed with what provision and supplies he thought he’d need, close at hand, ready at any moment to bolt. But every time opportunity presented itself, Arthur ducking behind a tree to relieve himself, a bend in the path from which Merlin could have easily slipped, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. If he had to leave Arthur he’d wait until the last possible moment, he would use every second to soak up the details of his face, the slope of his shoulder, the light through his hair. Gathering crumbs to nourish himself on for the rest of eternity. Tonight, he knew, once Arthur was asleep, he’d leave and never see him again. He told himself it would be easier—better—this way. That no one would have to lie, no one would get hurt. But they were only words, empty, pretty words. They comforted him little.

            Arthur already had the stew boiling by the time Merlin returned, bits of what little remained from the previous day’s rabbit bobbing in the thin, water-downed soup. Merlin set Arthur’s water skin down by his boot before taking a seat on a rock, close to the fire. He rubbed his hands in the warmth, fingers gentle over the fresh bandages.

            “How’s your hand?” Arthur asked, though he did not lift his head from the pot as he ladled out stew into two wooden bowls. Merlin accepted the offered meal but could not catch Arthur’s eye as the Prince sat down and began to eat quietly.

            “It’s fine. Not infected at least.”

            “You should have Gaius look at it once we get back to Camelot.” Merlin darted his eyes up to catch Arthur peering at him beneath thin lashes as he sipped at his stew. Licking his lips Merlin swallowed the lump in his throat.

            “Right, right, of course.”

            “Why didn’t…why don’t you just…” Arthur wiggled his fingers in the air before letting his hand drop down onto his knee expectantly.

            “I can’t. It…it doesn’t work like that.”

            “Fat lot of good having magic if it can’t regrow a finger,” Arthur muttered into his bowl. Merlin wanted to correct to, to tell him all the good magic had done for him, for Camelot, but after so many days of silence Merlin was wary to spoil this, to turn Arthur once more cold and distant.

            “I did kill the beast though.” Arthur looked up, met Merlin’s gaze. Defiant, he held it, refused to turn away as Arthur stared back at him. His voice, barely a whisper, clear in the still forest, each word heavy as stone. “I saved your life.” Arthur set down his bowl, leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. Face lit from below, the shadows of flames colored his brow, made it seem heavy and oppressed.

            “Why? Why didn’t you tell me? After all…after everything we’ve been through, how could you not…” Arthur searched for what else to say, lost. He licked at dry lips. “I thought we were friends. I know I mistreat you sometimes, but always in good fun. Never malicious, never with the intent to hurt you. How could you keep this from me?” For a long moment Merlin said nothing, only held the vision of Arthur before him as he measured his words. When at last he spoke he had to try and keep his voice from cracking, to well the tears up in his eyes before they could spill forth. Because he knew if he started weeping he would never stop.

            “Do you understand what it’s like? To have something inside you that you don’t understand? To be afraid every day that someone will find out, what they’ll do to you, what they’ll do to those you love. To never be able to share yourself with another person for fear of what they’ll say. And yet you can’t live any other way. Because otherwise you won’t live at all. I’m sorry, Arthur. For lying, for keeping this from you. Not because your my Prince, not because I’m your servant. Because we…because you’re my friend. I’m sorry, Arthur. So, so sorry.”

            Silence stretched out between them, languid and thin as the first ice across a lake’s surface, punctuated by the snap of burning word. When Arthur stood, stalking forward, Merlin leaned back, reaching for his bag, worried he’d have to flee. But then Arthur sank to the ground before Merlin, wet eyes glistening in the low firelight as he rested his cheek against the hard knob of Merlin’s knee. As they fell Arthur’s tears soaked the fabric of Merlin’s britches.

            “I never knew, I never knew. Oh Merlin, I’m so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”

            All the coiled tension in Merlin’s chest suddenly unfurled, shattered and dispersed by a breath of love sweeping through his body. His hand trembled as he cupped Arthur’s face, lifting his chin from his knee to look him in the eye. The blue of them shining through their veil of sorrow. Merlin would forgive him anything, refuse him nothing.

            “There’s nothing to apologize for. All of this is in the past.” Merlin rubbed a thumb over the plump of Arthur’s cheek, wiping away the lines of tears. Arthur grabbed his wrist, moved Merlin’s palm to his lips, pressed his mouth to the interwoven web of lines, the rough canvas of calluses.

            Merlin felt his face flush, heat prickling from the nape of his neck up along his cheeks to color his forehead. When he tried to swallow he found his mouth dry. Dizzy, the world spun madly about him as Arthur kissed the tips of each finger, even his nub of scars, eyes closed in votive rapture, a penitent at the shrine of absolution.

            To speak would have been to break the spell, splitter the magic binding them together in this moment. So Merlin slid from his seat to kneel on the ground with Arthur, hand winding into golden strands of hair as he brought Arthur’s face to his own.

            Never had Merlin dreamt of this moment, of the crash of lips upon lips, but if he had he was certain it would have paled in comparison to the reality of Arthur. Soft as wilted petals, but firm and strong as the man they belonged to. Salt from his tears mingled with the savory tang of stewed rabbit. And something else, some flavor beneath, rich and subtle, something uniquely _Arthur_. When their lips parted and their tongues met Merlin shivered, disconcerted by the slick foreignness of Arthur’s muscle pushing its way into his mouth. Except for hurried dalliances with farm girls in Ealdor, Merlin had never been with another person as he was now with Arthur. And for all their toil and hard work, no girl he’d ever followed behind a pig pen could match the force and insistence Arthur plied him with now. One hand bit hard into his hair, tugging at his scalp as Arthur held his mouth in place. The other roamed free, along his wrist and arm, around his shoulder, down his chest to seize upon his hip, strong fingers clutching at bone.

            When Arthur left his lips they were plump and wet and raw, kissed sore and full. He moved to Merlin’s ears, breath warm and heavy against the curve of them.

            “I’ve wanted,” Arthur whispered, nibbling on a dangling lobe, which caused Merlin to shudder and gasp, “for so long.” The slick tip of his tongue travelled the length of Merlin’s ear, dipping into its many caves and crevices. Even a slight, waxy taste could not deter him. Merlin gripped at Arthur’s back, twisting his tunic in his hands, desperate to hold on, as if perched on the edge of a precipice. Perhaps he was—if he were to tumble now, no one could catch him, not even Arthur. When Arthur bit the skin beneath Merlin’s left ear, right where the line of his jaw ended, Merlin dug his nails into the flesh of Arthur’s shoulder with a needy moan.

            All along his neck Arthur laved kissed, tongue darting out to taste the pulse thrumming just below the surface. At the junction where his throat met his shoulder, Arthur sucked a bruise, teeth gnawing at tenderized flesh. Beneath his touch Merlin writhed, hands fluttering like birds from Arthur’s hair to his back to the luscious swell of his ass. As he cupped the two, round globes Arthur bucked into Merlin, hips colliding. Arthur pulled back, leaving a delicate kiss on the angry, red swell of blood glowing just above Merlin’s collarbone.

            Arthur recaptured Merlin’s lips, worrying them with his teeth, at the same time snaking a hand up under Merlin’s tunic. Despite the chill, pervasive in the night air, everywhere Arthur touched was flushed and heated. Smooth as still water, Merlin skin sang to Arthur’s fingertips as they swam up the ridges of his ribs, palpable without any pressing. How thin and frail he seemed, wrapped in Arthur’s arms, so easy to break, so necessary to protect. Arthur pressed a hand to the small of Merlin’s back, pulled them close together, chest flush, till neither could be sure if the heart they felt beating were their own. A pinched nipple elated a moan, loud in the stillness of the forest, and when Merlin reopened his eyes he found Arthur before him, foreheads pressed together.

            “Tell me.” Merlin could feel the breath of Arthur’s words against his lips, close enough that the slightest tilt would bring them together again. But Arthur had moved his hand up Merlin’s back to tangle in his hair and he held him, insistent. “Tell me where you want me to touch you.” Arthur’s voice commanded, held that trained dignity only nobles possess. A voice that brooked no refusals, a voice to be obeyed.

            “Everywhere,” Merlin answered honestly, because how could he choose, with Arthur’s hands on his body and his mind blackened with bliss and need and his whole being thrilling, how could he possibly choose? “Everywhere, touch me everywhere, _please_.”

            A low growl snarled out of Arthur’s throat, and had he not been holding him Merlin would have toppled backwards with the force of the kiss with which Arthur assaulted his mouth. Tongue ravishing his mouth Merlin hardly noticed Arthur working at the strings of his britches till a hand slipped inside to wrap around his hardening cock. Merlin gasped into Arthur’s mouth, sound swallowed by their crashing lips, as Arthur tugged forcefully on Merlin’s prick.

            “Hmm,” Arthur hummed contentedly as his finger played over the length of Merlin’s arousal, “what do they say about big ears?” Arthur smirked as his hand slid down Merlin’s cock to cup his balls, rolling them around his palm. Whatever retort Merlin had was lost as Arthur pressed a finger onto the expanse of flesh behind Merlin’s scrotum, kneading the tender field as Merlin rode his hand, lips quivering with needy whines. How could a finite number of fingers be in an infinite number of places? Pinching, rubbing, soothing along the cleft of Merlin’s ass, tripping over his inner thighs, dancing across the red expanse of his cock.

            Merlin clung to Arthur as if drowning, fingers knitted in golden locks, tugging hard enough to rip strands from the Prince’s scalp. Against his thigh, straining within the confines of his britches, Merlin could feel the press of Arthur’s cock, damp patch of fabric darkening before his eyes. With frantic fingers Merlin dug his hands beneath the tight circled hem of Arthur’s trousers, forcing them inside, but Arthur batted his hands away, snatched his wrists as he pulled back to look Merlin dead in the eye.

            “No,” Arthur said, voice as firm as his grip. Merlin swallowed, face flush with wanton shame. Had he gone too far? Did Arthur not want this? But no, Merlin realized as Arthur spun him round by his shoulders, shoving him forward to flop over the boulder he’d been so recently sitting upon, Arthur did indeed want this, but he wanted this _his_ way.

            With one forceful tug Arthur yanked down Merlin’s britches till they pooled around his knees, a brown puddle of stained fabric. He shivered, despite the heat coiled and pulsing through every limb, the night air crisp against his bare flesh. When he scrambled to rise, pushing off the rough, uneven surface of the rock beneath him, a strong hand on his back pressed him down. Before him Merlin took in the grit of earth, sliced here and there by a stray, obdurate shoot of grass, clinging to life before the onslaught of winter. Night stretched on forever ahead of him.

            Behind him, Arthur worked Merlin’s legs wider apart, till a plaintive cry of torn fabric filled their camp. Briefly, as Arthur, smug in his victory, pried Merlin’s thighs apart even more, Merlin contemplated the fact that he’d neglected to pack an extra pair of trousers, that these were, in fact, the only pants he had with him. He realized that now when they rode back into Camelot he’d have to do it with a rip in his crotch and he dreaded being seen because every would know, somehow they would know, and this thought colored Merlin’s face and upset his stomach.

            But Merlin was only able to anguish over this for a moment, because then Arthur sucked a wet kiss at the base of Merlin’s spine and everything else melted away like so much candlewax. Teeth grazed the pale globes of Merlin’s backside, nipping at skin that had never before felt another’s touch. The intimacy of such a gesture, Merlin’s shameless vulnerability, made his cock bob and leak onto the stone beneath him. Like one would rub a finger over fine silk, Arthur ran the tip of his nose along the cleft of Merlin’s ass, up and down, moving from one cheek to the other. Despite the blood roaring and rushing in his ears Merlin heard Arthur inhale deeply, as if Merlin’s ass were a rose. With a morbid shudder Merlin thought to the last time he’d had a proper bath, and paled, mortified, when he couldn’t remember. But for all Merlin’s abashment Arthur remained undeterred, burying his face deeper into the folds of Merlin’s ass to press his lips against the furl of his hole.

            Once, after the Beltane feast had long concluded in the secret corners of night, past the hour when Gaius was asleep, when the merrymaking revelers had drifted to bed—their own or others’—when Arthur, like a babe, had been tucked into bed, Merlin had lied awake on the narrow cot in his bedroom. With the curious mix of courage and daring brought forth by one too many pitchers of wine, he’d sucked a finger between his lips, till it shone in the moonlight, slick and glistening. Like a chandelier it had hovered over this private part of himself, dripping onto the ring of muscles, clenched in apprehension. With a tentative press he’d edged the faintest sliver of nail inside, but the barest crescent, past the coil of fear.

            Had it not been for Gwaine—because, of course, who other than _Gwaine_ could such an idea originated with?—Merlin would never have attempted such an act, content with the dry pull of his hand beneath his sheets whenever a titillating thought and a stolen five minutes happened to grace his life at the same time. But then one night at _The Rising Sun_ , well into their cups, Gwaine, lost on an ambling recounting of yet another conquest, mentioned how, lips wrapped round him, this lass, _slipped her finger, the little one, right in my bum. And at first I was all_ , what the fuck are you doing _, but when I came, I swear, I came so hard I thought I’d blow a hole in the back of her head. Hand to God_. And so there Merlin was, heart square in his throat, wiggling a finger inside his body. But then Gaius, rolling over in his sleep, had knocked a book from its precarious perch on a stool, and at the clatter from the outer room all the courage had fled from him in one mad dash, and he’d pulled his finger away as if burnt. In the morning, a thick haze hung round his head, Merlin did his best to forget the whole ordeal.

            Now, though, now there was nowhere to run, no sleep to evade this intimacy of touch as Arthur’s tongue laved the pucker of Merlin’s hole, wet and incessant, making neat circles, widdershins, thick globs of saliva running down Merlin’s taint to pool and drip off the hang of his balls. When Arthur pressed his tongue inside, dipping and delving, Merlin let forth a moan from deep in his belly, all want and need and desperation.

            “Arthur,” Merlin panted, sweat fresh on his forehead despite the cool press of stone he laid it upon, “Arthur, oh God, please I—oh _God_!” Merlin shuddered, moaned, lost what he was going to say. Wide palms spread his cheeks apart so Arthur could nuzzle further in, the stray strands of his hair tickling the top of Merlin’s ass as he licked and drooled and played with the loosening coil of muscle. All of him was slick and dripping, supported by the rock and Arthur’s strength alone, spread open like a whore— _had Arthur done this to a woman, to a man, before_ , Merlin wondered, or was such talent inbred? Wet, biting kisses trailed up the length of Merlin’s back to the nape of his neck, then around the curve of his throat, up his cheek, till Arthur twisted Merlin’s face round, hands wrapped in atramentous curls, capturing his lips with teeth and tongue.

            A taste wholly strange and foreign assaulted Merlin’s mouth, and with a despairing twinge he realized it was himself. Had Arthur not held him in place, tautness of his hair biting into his scalp, he would have pulled away, terrified to know himself in such a way. But if Arthur loved him so, Merlin supposed he could come around to loving himself as well. All too quickly Arthur’s lips were gone, Merlin pressed back down, sharp mound of the stone beneath him hard against his chest, slicing into every breath.

            Merlin heard Arthur spit, recognized the all too familiar sound of a hand slicking a cock in rapid preparation. At the initial press of Arthur’s cockhead into his body Merlin cried out, though he fought desperately not to. Arthur stilled, a hand rubbed at the angles of his shoulder blades, but when Merlin said nothing Arthur pressed forward, burying himself inside the tight heat of Merlin’s body. This time, Merlin bit his lip to keep quiet.

            The exquisite pain of it! Arthur had done his best to ease his passage in, but too little. Like ripping, like torn paper, as Arthur bottomed out inside him, thick and filling. Suddenly Merlin felt ill, felt wrong and wanted nothing more than to push Arthur off of him, _out_ of him, to remove this weight, this fullness from his body. From his belly through his chest roared the words— _take it out, take it out, take it out_ —but Merlin clasped his own throat shut to keep them in. One slow breath, ragged past his lips, then another. By degrees his thighs stopped shaking, the tight muscles, like a vice around Arthur, gradually relaxed. Arthur pulled out halfway, and, aware perhaps of the heated friction upon his own skin, spit again, pressed his newly slicked cock back inside.

            There was no buildup, no progression. When Arthur started moving it was with all the speed and force he could muster, a brutish boy trapped in a man’s body, bereft of finesse in the place of force, and Merlin wondered again if this was the first time Arthur found himself like this with another person. With such vigor did Arthur thrust into Merlin, hands hard upon the handles of his hipbones, all snarls and grunts behind him, that Merlin worried, terror gripping his heart, that perhaps they’d not broken the curse at all, that in fact Arthur was still a beast inside, driven only by instinct and desire. But when fingers came to curl around the nape of his neck, playing at the strands of hair that tickled his skin there, Merlin knew that this was all Arthur, primal and savage and graceless and _Arthur_.

            And while the pressure of it, hitting some spot inside him that jellied his bones and tightened his stomach, the pace of it was too brutal for Merlin to enjoy himself; his cock grew soft, went limp as he dug crescents into the ground, dirt thick beneath the opaque cloud of his nails. Sounds that could have been words, could have been Merlin’s name, came tumbling out of Arthur’s mouth as his hips canted against Merlin, the slap of thighs on buttocks resounding in the privacy of night all around them. When his thrusts became frantic, losing what little rhythm they’d possessed, Merlin sensed Arthur was close; he came a moment latter, nails biting into the flesh of Merlin’s neck and thigh as Arthur cried out, as a warm wetness flooded Merlin’s insides. For the span of a heartbeat Arthur panted above and behind him, still buried deep in Merlin’s body, before pulling out to kneel on his haunches. Merlin gasped at the sudden sensation of empty loss. A trickle of something ran down his thigh and Merlin feared it was blood; exploratory fingers came back coated in a milky opacity, painted with Arthur’s tepid seed. Gingerly, body sensitized to every movement, every pull and strain of muscle, Merlin lifted himself off the rock, turned over and sat, back pressed against the stone, legs slumped out before him, anus leaking onto the ground beneath him.

            What rapture it was to look upon Arthur in that moment. Apple-cheeked, his lips parted to suck in raspy, gasping breaths. Hair plastered to his forehead, chest heaving with the effort of normalcy. Arms braced upon his thighs, the muscles corded, visible even through the damp of his tunic. And there, between his legs, the glisten of his cock, the head still wet and leaking, and though softening, still plump and full, hanging like a gourd. Had Merlin not loved Arthur before he would have loved him now.

            Slowly Merlin began to piece himself back together, stretching out his legs, adjusting his back against the rock, searching for edges that did not bite into his spine. Arthur watched him the way a boy watches a butterfly—awed, enraptured, afraid to touch lest nature’s beauty be sullied by the hands of man. Once he’d settled, Arthur caught the hang of Merlin’s cock, limp and forlorn in his lap. Color rushed to Arthur’s cheeks as he dropped his graze down to his knees.

            “Did you not…?” Arthur gestured vaguely towards Merlin’s lack of arousal. His voice, timid, trailed off into abashed silence, unable to speak the truth of his own inconsideration. Though Merlin did not answer, or perhaps because he didn’t, Arthur knew, the answer plain in the dry, listless droop of Merlin’s cock.

            At first, when Arthur crawled forward, dropping onto his elbows between the ridges of Merlin’s thighs, nuzzling the forest of wiry, black hairs, Merlin tried to push Arthur back, tried to tell him that this wasn’t necessary, but Arthur looked up at him, devout as a believer before a saint, so much love in his eyes Merlin thought he’d break beneath the weight of his gaze.

            “Please,” Arthur whispered, lowering his mouth to Merlin’s cock, “I want to.”

            Soon, he filled Arthur’s mouth, streams of spit running down the length of him to pool and wet the bed of hair at the base of his cock. Though poor in skill—Merlin felt certain Arthur had never done _this_ before—Arthur possessed incorruptible enthusiasm, licking and sucking and bobbing. Finger knitted on the back of Arthur’s head, not guiding, simply resting, Merlin came, his shout swallowed by the night. He had not thought to warn Arthur, to try and push him off, but if he minded he did not mention it, rising, tongue swiping across his bottom lip, to come and lay his head on the hollow of Merlin’s chest.

            Long they stayed like this, Arthur draped between Merlin’s legs, head rising and falling with each breath that filled his chest. Like wings Merlin folded his arms round Arthur, brought and held him close. Despite the ache in his back, the tired cry of muscles and bones, Merlin dared not move, dared not disturb this perfect reverie. When the sun rose, burning away the wisps of night that still clung to them, the soft, gray light found them still entwined.

            Merlin knew eventually they would have to rise, would have to return to Camelot. Beyond this morning he knew not what the future held. After searching for so long, after everything that had eluded his grasp had come stumbling into his arms, how could he be expected to let go now? So he fought against the dawn, against the flutter of consciousness even now rousing Arthur from his slumber, fought for even a few, precious minutes more, before the great wheel of destiny would come rolling over them, crushing everything in its path, grinding it all into dust, leaving nothing but a flat vista, stretching infinitely into all the tomorrows before them.

 

**Epilogue: New**

 

            Arthur was not in his chambers when Merlin slipped inside. He shivered at the bare chill of the room; in the hearth sat ash. Merlin did not turn to look, but flicked his wrist, the satisfying crackle of a newly birthed fire slowly warming the frozen stone. Not for the first time Merlin thought of Arthur, huddled round the council table, cloak wrapped tight about his shoulders, braziers roaring, but kept back, far from the precious documents being shuffled from aged and opinioned hands. He worried he was cold and wished there were something he could do for him.

            Instead, Merlin toed off his boots, kicking them beneath Arthur’s bed, shrugging out of his jacket to let it slink onto the floor. As he undid the laces of his britches they pooled around his ankles, quickly followed by his smalls. When at last he’d divested himself of his tunic and the rest of his clothes Merlin slid beneath the thick blankets, mattress sagging beneath his weight. Sheets like ice, Merlin shook, tucking them around his body, rubbing his limbs for warmth.

            He waited.

            Soon, the council would adjourn, some members lingering to discuss a final bit of business, some passing interest or court gossip. Arthur would wait them all out—Uther would expect this of him. But the lunch hour was fast approaching, Arthur needed his strength if he were to train the knights this afternoon, surely Uther would understand why Arthur had to slip away, professing hunger, patting his stomach. Perhaps, even, he would mention Merlin, wondering aloud what he’d brought for lunch today. But Merlin had brought nothing but himself.

            At the sound of footsteps beyond the door Merlin ducked beneath the covers, the air warm and stale in the hollow he created. He knew it was Arthur returning—he _hoped_ it was Arthur returning—but still worry gripped his heart, worry that it was a maid, some passing servant, even _Uther_. With a creak the door opened, with a dull thud it shut.

            “It’s alright,” Arthur said, “it’s just me.”

            And there he was, fingering the gloves from off his hand, beaming at Merlin as his head popped from out beneath the sheets. Merlin watched him undress, noted the scuff of leather as he kicked his feet free from the confines of his boots, took in the expanse of muscle, the broad sheet of chest and back as he hoisted his tunic over his head, discarding it across the back of a chair. The strength of his arms, the power of his thighs, the erotic pull, even when flaccid, of his cock, hung between his legs like a trophy, a testament to manhood.

            A chilled rush of air goose-pimpled Merlin’s flesh when Arthur lifted the covers to slip beneath them, sliding his body against Merlin, taking him into his arms. The heat of his body warmed Merlin’s soul.

            “How was the council meeting?”

            Arthur huffed and sighed but said no more, as if that explained it all. Instead he petted Merlin’s hair, tucked his chin over his head, let his fingers run the length of Merlin’s spine. Merlin caught Arthur’s hand with his own, slotted his fingers into the grooves, squeezed, and let it go. A thumb danced across his bottom lip.

            “We only have a few hours,” Arthur whispered.

            “I know.”

            Soon, very soon, Merlin would have to dress again, would have to fetch the Prince’s supper, lest the cook send a servant up instead. And there was training to be done this afternoon, despite the winds and the snow and the ever encroaching winter nights. Fevers and frostbite ran rampant in the lower town and Merlin would have to accompany Gaius on his rounds, treating whom they could. Arthur would sup with his father; Merlin would mend armor, polish boots. Decorum would keep them apart, tedium would pull them together.

            For Arthur would request a bath, which Merlin would draw, slipping beneath the steaming surface to lay his back against Arthur’s chest, warm tendrils of water running down their arms. Later, once Arthur was in bed, Merlin would return to Gaius’ chambers, yawning, his mouth an exaggerated maw of fatigue, and collapse onto his bed, waiting for the gentle snores to filter in through his door, the signal that it was safe to creep through the deserted, midnight corridors of the citadel, back to Arthur, who would be, even at this late hour, awake, waiting for him.

            Like lovers reunited after war they would fall together, their few, short hours apart an agony neither of them could describe. In bed they would make love, faces buried in pillows, lips bitten hard enough to bleed to keep their amorous shouts muffled and hidden from the many ears just beyond the four walls of their sanctuary. After, bodies knotted together, they would drift to sleep in each other’s’ arms.

            Sometimes, in the dead hours of morn, Merlin would awake, trembling, sweat-soaked, with a shout. His dreams would have been filled with horrors again—red, bleeding eyes, Arthur, writhing on the ground, foam spilling from his mouth, Uther, the flames of a pyre. Arthur would wrap his arms around Merlin’s waist, pulling him close, shushing his rapid, frantic breath, soft hands cupping his face. _Don’t worry_ , he would tell him, _it’s alright, I’m here, it will all be okay now_.

            But how long could they honestly believe this would last? How long before they were discovered—by a servant, by a friend, by Uther? How long before they became carless, before they let slip, before they were seen? And if not this, how long could Merlin’s magic stay hidden? How long could Arthur lie to his father, watch him burn and slaughter men and people, who, but for the grace of God, could so easily be replaced by his lover? How long could their love survive in the bitter winter of reality?

            He could say none of this to Arthur, though. Not when he held him with such hope, such tender adoration. Not when he looked into his eyes as if all else had faded from his world, as if he were the sun by which all of life were illuminated. Better to be a fool in love than afraid.

            So Merlin would let Arthur encompass him with his love, would rest his head upon his chest, listening to the waves of his breath as they slowed with the gentle coming of sleep. Merlin would watch him, would memorize the lines of his face, the hue of his hair, for a time when such looking would be denied him. Merlin would kiss the corners of his eyes, the top of his head, little more than a press of lips, as he waited for the early gray of dawn, when he’d have to leave him, returning to his chambers with Gaius, returning to the life he’d constructed around his true self, the mendacity of his existence.

            But not yet.

            There were still hours before that time. And so he watched, stole these private moments, stored them away. Told himself to believe, eventually drifting off to sleep.

            Night so cold only the moon howled.

**Author's Note:**

> A note on how this story came to be: The moon is always full in Camelot. Always. Every time it's shown in the show, it's full. Which got me thinking about werewolves, and well, here we are. The working title of this was "It's always a full-fucking-moon in Camelot."
> 
> Thank you so, so much for taking the time to read this story. It was truly a labor of love, and a great experience to take part in. Any thoughts are welcomed.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Phases [ART POST]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2381852) by [barbitone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbitone/pseuds/barbitone)




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